


of florists and tennis shoes

by venpast



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Angst, Books, Comedy, Drama, Drinking, Fluff and Angst, Language of Flowers, M/M, Multi, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, THEIR BANTER IS THE BEST, a sassy angry one, keith as a florist, keith in yoga pants, lance as an astronomy major, lance gives everyone nicknames, lance thinks cacti are romantic, pidge is A Hipster, this is basically a hipster florist fic that no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 63,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venpast/pseuds/venpast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Lance wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the brief tremble at the corner of Keith’s lips or not, that slight stutter that promised a smile. But before he could guess further, Keith gave his knee a shove and got to his feet. He reached out to him, “I’m done here, and I’ve still got some daisies to sell you.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Lance agreed, looking down at the extended palm, noting the little Saturn tattoo on the inside of Keith’s wrist where the sleeve hiked. He took the hand, “better not overprice those too, you asshole.”'</p><p>(in which lance is a broke university student trying to impress a pretty girl with flowers, but ends up falling for the florist that sells them instead.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. cacti and coffeeshops

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: okay this was fun to write, but i want to see if it's well received! this is going to be a (probably) six/seven part short story where lance is a sarcastic asshole, and keith is in a little too deep. :)
> 
>  **update** : yeah i lied this is in no way short and it will not - in any way - be only six/seven chapters
> 
> the hipster florist au nobody asked for but every fandom needs im so sorry
> 
>  
> 
> _earthquakes shake the dust behind you  
>  this world at times will blind you  
> still I know I'll see you there_
> 
> come a little closer, cage the elephant

“Let me get this straight,” Pidge raised a calculative eyebrow, pinching the bridge of their nose, “you want to buy her a _cactus_?”

“Well yes—and no,” Lance palmed the back of his neck, both of them walking down the street, one hand rooted deep into his worn university sweatshirt. They moved slowly, basking in the pleasant autumn chill that left leaves strewn about, breaking softly underneath the soles of their feet. He liked it that way, the glow of not-quite summer and the bite of almost winter—a pleasant in between that made his pining all the more ironic. “I want to buy her a cactus, but like, a meaningful one, you know? Chicks dig that sort of stuff, man.”

“Don’t call me ‘man’,” Pidge rolled their eyes, middle finger coming up to push at the bridge of their glasses, “please don’t tell me you’re referring to the language of flowers. I’m almost a hundred and thirty-seven percent sure cacti are not symbolic of romance.”

Lance gave a flippant scoff, waving Pidge off with a rolling palm. It was almost routine, how they found themselves in one another’s company—brought together more often by coincidence than delicate planning. The town was only so big, after all, and the college likewise; there was pretty little he could do to avoid classmates - not that he tried often. Lance was a social being, and even though run-ins at the grocery store down fifths were hardly an ideal, he supposed it wasn’t too bad of a meeting spot for daily gossip. However, that wasn’t always the case, and Lance often found himself hungover, clad in sweats and a stained crew-neck, trying to maneuver a labyrinth of isles—least to say, running into particularly voluble neighbors only served to feed the budding migraine and press on his tender nerves.

That morning, though, was different. It involved Lance actively seeking out Pidge.

And so he had, walking through a town that was small in nature, riddled with short buildings and French balconies, in the heart of the woods. A secluded spot, and even as someone who generally disliked the outdoors, Lance could admit that it had it’s own charm and aesthetic, even if it made Lance want to trip every cyclist that rode past them. “You just don’t get it, do ya, Pidgeon.”

“I swear by the _moon_ , Lance,” it was an empty threat, paired with a shaken head. There was only so much of Lance one could handle before it became a little too much.

“But seriously,” he continued, spreading his arms out to prove a point, “think about it - a cute little small _thing_ with flowers or something. It’s perfect, girls like cute things.”

Pidge crossed their arms over a narrow chest, oversized knit sweater bunching up at the crease of their elbow. They threw Lance a side glance, smirking softly, “you don’t know very much about girls, do you, Casanova?”

Scoff, “more than you, midget.”

“I find that a little hard to believe,” they laughed, a joyful chirrup that was too amused for Lance’s liking. A small, and colorfully bandaged set of fingers came up to stifle the sound in response to his glaring. There was no getting used to how often Pidge laughed at his expense, and no matter how routinely that tended to happen, Lance continued to be offended and his pride continued to bruise. It was a wonder he still had an ego as large as he did. “I think that cactus you want to buy has more of a personality than you.”

Lance stopped in his tracks leaning down to Pidge’s height to sneer at them through narrowed eyes, “you are a mean, _mean_ little thing.”

“So I’ve been told.” Pidge responded with an amused smile, eyebrows high and playful behind their glasses, “everything aside, what the hell makes you think a prickly fern is the way into a woman’s heart? Most - normal - people go for roses and stuff, you know, the _normal_ and more poetic symbol for _‘let’s bang_ ’”

Stepping back, Lance puckered his lips in thought, head tipped back. “Dunno, seemed like a smart idea - besides, have you ever tried to kill a cactus?” His head snapped to Pidge, eyes widened for comic emphasis, “that shit’s _impossible_.”

Pidge paused, “wait, why the _fuck_ have you tried to kill a cactus before?”

“You haven’t?”

They stared at him incredulously, “ _no_?”

Lance rolled his eyes and started walking again, “doesn’t matter, either way, she won’t have to go through the hassle of taking care of it. Girls like efficiency, right? That’s plenty efficient!”

Pidge didn’t move from their grounded spot, staring solemnly at the back of Lance’s head. “Was your last girlfriend a toaster, Lance? Because at this point, I’m not buying the argument that you’ve dated anything that breathes.”

“ _Oi_!” Lance turned on his heel, mouth unhinged in offense, “are you going to help me or not?”

Pidge relented, heaving in an exaggerated breath before walking forward and grabbing his arm, “I feel like if I don’t, you’ll buy her something fatally poisonous by mistake. Last thing I need is a friend in jail, no matter how handy those connections might be.”

* * *

Lance was fortune’s fool; he was a simple man, driven to the strangest of situations by fate’s fickle strings, or so he liked to dramatically insert whenever possible. The morning had faded into afternoon, with the winter sun bearing down on both of them, and for such a small town, Lance didn’t understand the lack of florists. The alleyways and side streets were littered in independent cafés, greeting them with creative chalkboards and the lingering smell of caramel; tight homes were lined up side-by-side, mock mirroring the gothic dutch suburb, with balconies woven in blooming vines—ones that Lance had a difficult time believing were _a la naturale,_ so to speak. People had to have planted them, and even though the moss green that dug itself into the fissures of the old buildings looked quite old in itself, the young flowerpots set quaintly in balcony gardens told a different story. It all begged the question of where all the flower shops went, because two hardly sufficed, and Lance’s patience, thin by nature, was wearing thinner with every passing moment. 

Pidge had dragged him around all morning, claiming to have known a particular florist near campus that sold most of the graduation bouquets and flower arrangements, and like a fool, Lance had followed them. It was only when they stopped in front of an abandoned shack, dusty and very much empty of any type of life - plant or human - did Pidge’s wince and their gentle ‘ _whoops_ ’ finally sink the remaining sediments of Lance’s patience into the ocean. It was, in actuality, an honest miscalculation - but Lance was not the type to let anyone live anything down.

“I swear they were here a couple of months ago!” Pidge squawked, stepping past Lance’s devastatingly irate deadpan, to push into the shop. They hadn’t needed to do much other than step onto the threshold before the door fell of its hinges and crashed to the side in a mess of glass and splintered rosewood. Biting their lip, beating down on a guilty smile, Pidge looked over their shoulder at Lance.

“Clearly.” Lance raised an eyebrow, sarcastic apathy weighing itself heavy on his tongue, “if i didn’t know any better, I’d say they left yesterday - I mean just look at the pristine condition of this store right here - ah, can’t you smell the jasmine?”

“You’re such a dick.” Pidge’s face colored when they rolled their eyes, adjusting their glasses with one palm, while the other arm tied neatly across their torso. “You’re the one who didn’t like anything the last florist had to offer!”

“Oh, ho, ho, _no_ you don’t.” Lance’s face widened in a grin, stepping forward to waggle an index finger a breath’s proximity from Pidge’s nose, “you are not pinning this on me, this was _all_ on you. You _said_ this dude would have some fucking cacti!”

“Goddamn it, Lance!” they snapped, stomping a suede-clad foot onto some broken glass, before slapping the out-stretched hand away, “why don’t you just buy normal flowers like every other normal person, jeez! Stop being a hipster!”

Lance scoffed with an incredulous smile, leaning back with a lone finger pointing at his chest,“ _I’m_ being a hipster? Sweet quiznak, Pidgeon, do you own a mirror? I want a cactus, you, on the other hand, are wearing a floral  _print_ for god's sake!”

“Irrelevant!” Pidge snapped, before heaving dejectedly, “either way, what’re you gonna do now?”

Lance sighed as well, toeing at the rough gravel with a worn pair of worn white canvas shoes, before dropping to settle on the pavement. He brought his knees up, long legs crossing at the ankles as he rested his elbows onto the elevated peaks. Lance smiled teasingly, “I have no idea. What am I supposed to get her now? I’m more broke than your glasses at a tech store - on like, black friday.”

Their deadpan was tangible, “wow, you’re an asshole.”

“If I didn’t know you better, cheesecake, I’d say you sounded surprised.” Lance chuckled, receiving a steady and strong hit to the back of the head, before Pidge settled their small form by him, legs crossed, head tilted back. He sighed, “you do know I’m kidding though, right?”

“Are you explaining yourself?” they laughed, “my gods, someone’s in a pathetic mood.”

“You know what, I take it back. You’re Satan’s butthole.”

“Thanks, John Donne.”

Lance rolled his eyes, before falling back onto the pavement, lean arms folded behind his head. He ignored the bite of the small bits and pieces of tinted glass that made it past the grey of his cotton sleeve. Eyes sliding closed, he felt Pidge shift uncomfortably beside him, looking up into the sun; all jokes aside, he knew he’d made them feel genuinely guilty. Pidge, he found, was the single most intelligent person he’d ever come across—a small thing, with the bite and brain of a mountain lion; they never made mistakes, they never miscalculated, they were never wrong—and it bothered them to an impossible extent when it was at the expense of others, even if those others happened to be Lance trying to woo a particularly uninterested female specimen. He sighed, Pidge was the greatest.

“So, Pidge-pie, you wanna grab a cup of coffee as we ponder over this depressing turn of events? You’re off the hook for the rest of the day, scout’s honor.” He pushed himself up with a soft grunt, placing an encouraging palm on the small of their back. He was a little tired himself, and no matter how little the town was, it was quite the walk to take it from top to bottom, and around the corners, a couple of times. _It’s not like theres anything I can do at this point,_ he bit his lip, _the prickly pear will have to wait_. “Who knew it would be this hard to find a freaking _plant_ , though, yikes.”

Pidge groaned loudly, letting a risen Lance pull them to their feet, “this is so shit, seriously—how could they be closed, people actually liked them!”

“S’okay, Pid-pid, you’ll get it right next time,” Lance shrugged happily, “hopefully you don’t try again when I’m with you, because damn, what a waste of time!”

“That was the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received,” Pidge curled their lips, briefly knocking their shoulder into Lance’s, “also, is it just me or is your choice in nicknames getting gradually worse?”

“It’s just you.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure.”

They walked back the way they came, the tight downtown starting to breathe with the life of the afternoon. The normally calm streets beginning to heave with students who’d used their weekend’s morning to sleep in, unlike Lance, who was starting to regret his decisions over the course of the last twenty-four hours. He wasn’t sure which he regret more, the fact he decided to stay up all night streaming a silly animated mecha-show instead of sleeping - simply because he _could_ \- or the fact he decided to drag Pidge out so early in the first place. He’d actually had to catch up to them as they ran their morning jog—and although Lance was a far cry from unfit, the lack of rest left him heaving. _Never abusing my weekend power ever again_ , he sighed, digging both palms into his hooded university sweatshirt.

They finally came to a decisive stop in front of a small coffeeshop, the interior and exterior made of seamless white brick, a witty chalkboard open by the door with a pun that Lance paid little heed. It was unlike him to bypass a bad joke, particularly in the presence of Pidge of all people, because their pained groans were far too amusing to forfeit. Lance gave it a once over; he wasn’t feeling it, given their recent defeat. _Fuck it, that was a good pun, I’ll laugh later_. He pushed past the glass door and into the pleasant warmth of the shop, familiar mismatched lounge chairs coming into view with the typical musty scent of vanilla and earthy coffee.

Lance’s resting frown was upturned into a lopsided smirk at the sight in front of him: Hunk manning the counter.

“Oi, _oi_ , big guy!” Lance brought two fingers to his lips, letting out a loud, ear-splitting whistle. Lance ignored the groans all around the cramped café, from studying students to Pidge who elbowed him roughly, “Hunk!”

The man in question paused his wiping of the service bar in favor of looking up curiously. At the sight of a grinning Lance, and an irritated Pidge, Hunk’s smile grew, “hey man!”

Lance strut to the counter, resting his elbow on it leisurely, “what’s up, Hulk? Wanna fix me up something good, a vanilla latte or something?”

“Lance, I think your gay is showing,” Pidge shook their head, an amused smile playing on their lips, bandaged fingers brushing over the expression.

“I’ll have you know, I am not _gay_ , you little shit,” he tossed them a flippant eye-roll, “I’m a man of the people; I happen to like men  _and_  women. Sorry to disappoint, Pidge, but maybe we can bang in ten years, because the pedophillic scene really just isn't for me. ”

“As _if._ ”

“Okay guys,” Hunk laughed nervously, folding the towel and setting it to the side, “I’d love to make you all the sexually-confusing drinks you’d like, but I actually got to run an errand for the shop before I’m off the clock.”

“But Hunk, I’ll die of dehydration, you insensitive prick.” Lance dramatically placed the back of a hand to his forehead, leaning into Hunk’s personal space, who only chuckled, pushing at Lance’s shoulder playfully. Lance’s whining had become something akin to a habitual happening—an unyielding constant that everyone had to deal with.

“I’m pretty sure you’ll live, McClain.”

“I’m not sure,” Pidge added, smirking, “you see, Hunk, our boy Lance here is thirsty in more ways than one.”

At this, Lance fell back from the counter, straightening out his posture with visibly raised hackles, “hey, you little shit!”

Pidge ignored him entirely, putting both palms into the back pockets of their jeans as they turned to Hunk with a curious smile, “where you off to anyway?”

Lance’s offended voice became background noise when Hunk sighed, leaning forward on both elbows over the counter, “boss wants me to pick up some things for the shop—if I’m being entirely honest with you, I’d rather stick around and finish up the brownies I’m making.” He looked around a little cautiously before gesturing for both of them to lean in. He cupped his mouth, “Coran can’t bake for shit, dudes, and guess who’s on the next shift?”

Lance’s snort became a series of short scoffs before blowing out into a full, hearty laugh, “ah, _shit_ —that guy’s stuff is like year old scones, fuck.”

Hunk looked around before he turned to Lance nervously, twiddling his thumbs, “jeez, keep your voice down—I know, right? God, one time he was making pudding and it turned out green, Lance. _Green_ , and that would normally be okay if, you know, it was pistachio mousse or something—but _no_ , it was _chocolate_. I don’t know how that’s even possible, man!”

By now, even Pidge had joined Lance in his choppy laughs, “gods, why does this guy still have a job?”

“Well,” Hunk swallowed, “he owns the place for one.”

Lance gave a low whistle; no one was laughing anymore, “oh.”

Pidge cleared their throat, effectively breaking the silence that had fallen over them. “Well, where you headed?”

“He wants air-plants for the ceiling, man. I don’t even know what those _are_ ,” Hunk groaned, his head dropping into two open and ready palms, “he made an order from some florist down the street or something. I don’t know.”

Pidge both almost _heard_ and predicted the perky snap of Lance’s head towards them before they actually saw it, the daring grin painting their peripheral. Pidge frowned, “but there isn’t one. Me and Lance tore through all the florists in this town this morning, one by one.”

Hunk disregarded Lance’s bitter ‘ _they were three, so it wasn’t_ that _hard_ ’, “this one just opened then? I don’t know. I just know it exists and boss needs me to pick up some stuff.”

“You’re in luck then!” Lance reached over the counter, pulling Hunk into a side-embrace, a baleful smile plotted on his features, “because _I_ ,” his narrowed eyes landed on Pidge, “have an idea.”


	2. bruised lips and succulents

“You know, I thought this was going to be some really intricate, sort of incognito stuff, but _seriously_ Lance,” Pidge crossed their arms, eyes running over the worn and peeling teal paint. The shop entrance was narrow, doors high with two rectangular windows breaking halfway. Young plants were left in three rows, some higher than others on the woven handmade wooden display shelves, a large window taking up most of the wall behind the flowers with a watermarked logo of sorts, and from what Lance could tell, the store was nearly as narrow as its entrance. Pidge scoffed, “this is pathetic.”

“Hey it’s a good plan, man!” Lance shook the folded paper in their face, “think of it, we pick up Hunk’s stuff, you take it back to him and he gets to stay and get a raise because—don’t give me that look!—you know how orgasmic his brownies are!”

“Ten bucks says you won’t find a damn cactus, you self-serving ass.” Pidge tucked both hands into their jeans’ pockets, throwing Lance an unimpressed look through the corner of rounded glasses, “we both know you’re only here for that.”

“Hey, _hey_!” Lance clutched the fabric over his chest, faux wounded, “don’t be so cynical, Pidge-pie! I’m here for the greater good. Hunk’s financial situation is of the utmost importance to me!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Of course!”

“Then you don’t need me here—” Pidge shrugged, taking a few steps away from the store.

Lance let out a series of breathy, nervous chuckles, grabbing onto their small wrist, “oh, no, no—of course I need you, silly, _aha_.”

“Typical.” Pidge shook their head, sighing, “you’d make a terrible scout, by the way.”

The shop was everything Lance thought it would be, as he pushed past his smaller friend with a smile. The thick musk of oriental lilies shadowed over the wooden frame of the interior, one that’s walls were lined with high, cherrywood shelves, cradling young plants and empty flowerpots, vines weaving themselves around the frail looking pillars. The ceiling was low, the cold sun pouring through the large window pane; Lance craned his neck, taking in the aging paint. It was almost strange, because despite the obvious age of the small room, the area was far from unclean or dusty—it had a warmth that wasn’t very different from the one that bloomed in Lance’s chest when he went home. _It_ feels _like home_ , he thought, taking a leaf between his fingers, eyes tracing along the stretched vine of the climbing plant.

The green braid took him down from the shelves, to the ground, carving a clean path up to the register—Lance’s breath caught; sat upon the risen platform was a figure. Their legs were folded neatly under them, the swell of sculpted calves fading into the twin breaks of two delicate ankles, feet fitted into a pair worn, classic tennis shoes. Lance swallowed, his mind slower than his eyes to register the rest of the figure—from the capri yoga sweats, ones showcasing the ivory of flawless shins, to the sleeveless fitted burgundy turtleneck that accentuated the breadth of their shoulders to the narrow tightness of their waist.

Though, as Lance’s eyes finally fell from their hidden neck to the elegant sharpness of their face, the colorful nature of Lance’s surroundings seemed to pale—the boy had the most traditional form of beauty that he had ever seen, cheekbones sitting high on his heart shaped face, lips a bruised, plump garnet. If Lance wasn’t as apt as he was - years of observation, he supposed - at telling pretty males from women, he would’ve been fucked.

The boy cleared his throat, drawing Lance’s attention to the slanted graphite of his eyes. “Uh, is there anything I can help you with?”

Pidge was the first to speak, “actually, yes, that would be great—we’re here to pick up a shipment? Something for the coffeeshop down the road?”

The boy nodded, a dawning look of understanding etched onto his face, “yeah, yeah—Corun, was it?”

“Co _ran_.” Lance added his two-cents distractedly, eyes still trained onto the guy’s elven nose, “his name’s almost as messed up as he is.”

“He’s—” the other trailed off with an indifferent shrug, pressing closed the book in his lap and setting it aside before jumping off the cashier counter. His agile form landed in a near perfect, practiced manner, “—well, he’s _something_.”

Pidge snorted, “that’s one way of putting it, the last time I saw a mustache that comic was in my high school history textbook—I’m talking Kaiser Willem I, yikes.”

“No kidding,” the guy breathed, walking around to the back and bending at the waist to sift through some lower shelves that Lance couldn’t see; not that he was particularly interested in the _plants_. He tore his eyes off the bow-legged swell of strong thighs. Lance was not an idiot, and he was hardly a _blind_ idiot—he had no shame admitting when the person in front of him was attractive, and he was more than shameless in letting them know _exactly_ what he found attractive through sly smiles and sharp eyebrows. Though, while he was a firm believer in lust at first - lingering - glance, love was a whole different ballgame. The territory that came with that notion was fragile and dangerous, and despite being a notorious flirt, he tended to stray past that domain with cautious eyes and cautious feet. Aphrodite was a fickle, _fickle_ bitch.

Granted, this guy was attractive—but it changed absolutely nothing.

With a heaving grunt, the kid stood straight, placing a five tier tall pillar of plant baskets onto the cashier desk, held apart by metal framework, slender green vines and thin leaves overflowing over the edges. It looked like a pretty waterfall of green and pale yellow, each basket cushioning one pretty Tillandsia. Lance thought they were pretty bland plants, though; he kept his opinion silent.

“So these are five Ionatha Fuegos—they should start dyeing red pretty soon, so tell Coran to give them some time,” the boy palmed the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his - _is that a fucking mullet?_ \- neck. Lance was thankful for the small pony tail. “He should water them every—”

“Uh, sorry—” Pidge paused awkwardly, gesturing to the male, who blinked owlishly back.

“Keith.” 

“Yeah, Keith.” Pidge nodded slowly, and a little sheepishly, “we’re kind of the messengers here, we don’t actually work there—so, yeah.”

“Oh,” he said - _Keith_ said, biting his lip, the gears in his head turning in an almost transparent fashion. _Where have I heard that name before_ , Lance thought from his uncharacteristically silent spot, _I could have sworn I knew a Keith_. He didn’t look familiar, Lance figured he would’ve remembered someone with a face like that. He shrugged it off, before leaning his hip against the cashier desk, arms crossed. _Whatever_.

“Yeah, mullet-man, we don’t work there—”

Keith gave a loud, offended scoff, eyes flitting from Pidge to narrow at Lance in annoyance, “don’t call me that.”

“Not my fault you channel Chuck Norris whenever you visit your barber.” Lance leant his head onto his shoulder, elbow sliding across the register. He kept his smug smile in place, in response to Keith’s irate scowl.

“Are you normally this much of an asshole to people you just met, or am I just lucky?”

“He’s a born natural,” Pidge spoke through a tight smile, “you should see him with the people he _knows_.”

“Oi, Pidgeot, you’re taking the stuff back to Hunk right?” Lance’s eyes slid closed, annoyed, before they opened leisurely with a lid. He was vaguely aware of Keith shaking his head in exasperation from his peripheral, hunching forward to write something down, _ugh what a jerk_. Lance was kidding, Lance was always kidding, so there was no need to be rude. _The prick can’t even take a joke._ There was nothing endearing about how unaware Lance was of his own inherent hypocrisy.

“Wait, aren’t you coming with?”

“I need to pick up something else, remember?” Lance spread his arms wide, gesturing to the shop. He narrowly missed Keith’s head, who was pretty sure the action was done on purpose. Lance smirked; he would neither confirm nor deny that unvoiced assumption - though he figured the shit-eating grin he threw back at the other was enough of a conclusive answer.

“You called me along to be your lackey.” Pidge’s voice was high and disbelieving, distractedly taking the paper Keith held out to them, “and I fell for it. I fucking _hate_ you.”

“Love you, Pid.” Lance gave them a quick wink, nose scrunching up playfully, “you know that, right?”

“I will _castrate_ you.”

There was a gentle, breathy noise, but it made them both give pause; it a subtle little twitter, paired with the quietest snort Lance had ever heard, and when he turned to Keith - all bitten lip and trembling eyebrows and plump-lipped smile - he couldn’t help but feel his own lopsided grin surface. _Fuck, this kid is gorgeous_ , his eyes failed to leave the pronounced cupid’s bow of Keith’s lips. Caught, Keith placed a hand over his face. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.” _You guys are a mess,_ went unspoken.

Lance’s grin only widened, as he continued to stare at the awkward man, “don’t apologize, that was fucking exquisite, even if it was at my expense.”

“Keep it in your pants, Romeo.” Pidge deadpanned, pointedly using a middle finger to adjust their glasses, “please, no one wants to see that.”

Undeterred, Lance blinked slowly at Keith, who in turn heaved a steady breath and turned to Pidge, doing his best to ignore the gaze, “so, yeah - just take the paper I gave you to whoever works there. They should know what to do, the instructions are pretty basic.”

“Thanks,” Pidge bit out in Lance’s direction. Lance puckered his lips and blew them a small kiss - Pidge’s unimpressed glare deepened, before they turned back to Keith, “I’m sorry, but apparently, I’m leaving that _thing_ here.”

Keith forced a tight smile, awkwardly circling his jaw, “it’s cool, don’t sweat it.”

Lance could have sworn he’d heard a couple choice words about spaniards as Pidge picked up the plants from the fer forgé handle at the top, elbowing their way past Lance. They kneed the door open, pushing it open the rest of the way using their back - and Lance assumed their glare would’ve been intimidating, had it not been hidden behind a high rise of coffeeshop plants. _Ah, Pidge, you cute little munchkin you_ , he thought, giving them a small, sarcastic wave; Pidge slammed the door shut behind them.

There was a beat of silence, right before he heard Keith jump back onto the desk, inches from where Lance was standing, his bare ankles crossed and his legs swinging, “so, what can I do you for?”

Lance turned away from the door. The space between them was far enough not to invade either’s personal bubble, but it was close enough for Lance to smell the cinnamon gum on Keith’s breath, close enough to see the little wisps of hair that escaped the small, loose bun at the back of his head, and the flakes of violet in his eyes. Plastering a vain grin on his face Lance fell back, pushing to his feet to look around the shop with a lack of genuine interest, “you wouldn’t have some cacti, by any chance?”

“Cacti?” Keith raised an eyebrow, “well, not as of right now.”

Lance bit the inside of his cheek, but couldn’t hold the hoarse groan that escaped him. He turned back from looking at one of the more leafy plants that he’d faked nonchalant interest in, staring at Keith with incredulously widened eyes.“how the _fuck_ do all of you _‘florists’_ —” he used a single index finger on each hand for obnoxious air quotations, “—not have a single goddamn _cact_ —”

Lance’s tirade came to an abrupt end when something small, and red and very much _not-leafy-foliage_ entered his field of vision. His eyes easily bypassed Keith’s offended expression in favor of narrowing in on a little potted plant that sat by the boy’s sculpted thigh. It was an unfamiliar sight, a plant that he hadn’t seen much of despite running the town like a madman. _Hadn’t seen at all,_ he corrected mentally. It was something akin to a rose, each of its petals coming to a sharp point at the edge. They were ones that bled a vibrant magenta red along the edges, wet with dew, color fading into a dusty saffron heart. The small bloom was thick, and shared nothing with flowers save its patterned spread, leaving it tucked neatly into sandy soil. It couldn’t have been older than a couple of weeks, he figured, but Lance knew too little about plants to judge - maybe it was a plant that didn’t grow too large. He didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he cared enough to.

There was one thing Lance knew, though: it was _perfect_.

“You don’t have cacti.” Lance repeated, voice dazed and distracted.

Keith grabbed one of his ankles, tucking it under his form, letting his other leg dangle. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, lips pursed in petulant annoyance, “no, i told you: we’re not getting them for a couple of weeks. We kind of just opened, if you couldn’t tell from how much of a mess the place is—”

He paused at the sight of Lance pointing to something by Keith’s knee, “what about that one?”

“What’re you—” Keith looked down, and even if Lance wasn’t as observant as he was, the immediate downturn of Keith’s expression was easy to pinpoint. Those pretty violets narrowed down at the plant, before flitting to him, “she’s not a cactus, she’s a succulent.”

Lance’s posture, which was leaning slightly forward to observe the little thing, straightened out defensively. “Does it matter?” he raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

Keith bristled almost immediately, leaning back to take the small plant into his lap. Lance watched him stroke the violet clay flower pot in an almost protective manner. He never understood people who attached themselves to inanimate possessions. “Of _course_ it does - she’s an agavoides romeo.”

“Yeah, no, speak _english_.”

“She’s an echeveria. Those aren’t cacti.” Keith bit, folding his legs to cradle the succulent. Lance rolled his eyes, he genuinely couldn’t care less what the plant was. It looked pretty enough to give as a gift, and given the way Keith was stroking the edges, it was safe to assume the thing wasn’t virulent or anything. _She’d like it_ , was the only reasoning behind his flippant attitude. It was a change from his usually unjustified holier-than-thou tendencies.

“Yeah, yeah whatever. How much for the leaf flower?”

“ _Red—”_ Keith snapped, “is not for sale.”

Lance shook his head, a frustrated but equally confused expression curling the corner of his mouth, “what do you mean it isn’t for sale—jesus fuck, you’re a _florist_ and you won’t sell me a damn plant?”

“I never said I wouldn’t sell you anything.” Keith’s voice was cold, and his eyes sharp on Lance’s, “just not her, she’s mine.”

“Her?” Lance scoffed incredulously, not bothering to ask _who brings their fucking plant to work_ , “how the hell do you know the thing’s a chick?”

Keith rolled his eyes, before beckoning Lance forward, two fingers curling to gesture the student closer. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he threw Lance a small smile when the other was near enough, grabbing Lance’s chin to pull his face closer until the proximity allowed Keith to whisper in his ear—

“ _I work at a flower shop._ ”

The most insulting part of it all, the part that really bruised his ego, Lance had to admit, was the part where Keith spoke it _loudly_ and _monotonously_ into his ear, _fucking prick_. Lance’s nose twitched, eyes rolling to their corners to glare at the subtly smug expression. “You’re a real charmer, aren't you, Keith?” he spoke lifelessly.

Lance almost choked when he saw the confidence on Keith’s face falter, his expression fading into one that was curiously flattered, “um, _thank_ _you_?”

 _This kid is going to kill me. He’s going to kill me._ It didn’t help that the slight cock of Keith’s head made it all the more harder to deal with the situation in a crass manner. It held a naiveté that Lance was unused to dealing with, given that Pidge was as far as it got from untainted innocence—Pidge was sooner a warlord tyrant than they were a pure minded florist. “That—” Lance faltered, completely lost, “that really wasn’t a compliment.”

Keith frowned, looking down at the plant. Lance felt the disbelief in his chest swell. “It wasn’t?”

He sputtered, hating himself for being affected by how pretty the boy looked even when he was down, “I was being _sarcastic_!”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_.”

Keith suddenly let his eyes fall onto Lance after a beat of silence, head still tilted downward towards the plant, “wait, I never caught your name.” _Right_.

“Lance,” he supplied.

“Well, Lance,” Keith sighed, taking the echeveria off his lap and setting it aside safely out of reach, “I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re a dick.”

“Wow, jeez, like I’ve never heard _that_ one before,” Lance tucked both hands in his sweater, looking to the side dejectedly. He would never admit it out loud, but for some reason it bothered him that this _particular_ person thought badly of him. It wasn’t like he knew Keith, but the boy’s opinion mattered a little more than it should have for a beautiful stranger. Lance was no foreigner to insult and rejection, having hit on married women at bars by mistake countless times, and flirted with all the pretty - usually taken - girls at frat parties—but generally, no matter how hard the boyfriend hit, he found himself indifferent. They were all irrelevant in the end—but this time, it was different. That annoying feeling wove itself between his lungs. “Thanks for your creative input.”

“No problem,” Keith breathed awkwardly, hopping down from his seat in favor of rocking on the heels of his tennis shoes. He swallowed, “what did you want the cactus for anyway? Dorm room decor, or what?”

Lance shrugged, no use lying. “I wanted to gift it to someone - a girl, actually.”

“No offense, but you do know cacti aren’t really romantic, right?” Keith crossed his arms over a narrow chest, leaning the small of his back against the register. “Normally, people want to buy - you know - roses, and stuff.”

He had a hard time controlling his groan. “Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

Keith cleared his throat before looking away. Lance could see the uncomfortable slant of his shoulders, “uh—was the girl who walked in—I mean—” _is he blushing?_ “are you getting it for her?”

Lance was almost too caught up in the burgundy that framed Keith’s ears to answer, thoughts wandering as his mind compared the reds of Keith’s ears to the shades woven into his turtleneck. Lance blinked, before registering the question.

“Her? Who are you—” his mind lagged moments behind the shifting look of mortification that took hold of his features, palms waving in the air—in bloody _negation_ , “oh my fucking god, _no_ —are you asking me if I’ve got the hots for Pidge? Pigeon? _Pidget the Midget_?”

Keith couldn’t help it: a small breathy chuckle escaped him, “you’re really terrible, you know that, right?”

“I mean, they’re gorgeous and everything, but sweet _quiznak_ , that _has_ to be illegal—incest or something, man,” Lance spoke it all in the string of a single breath, completely distracted. A hand came up to run through his hair, “wow, _no_ —Pidge, is most definitely not the babe I’m pining for.”

“ _They_ ,” Keith corrected himself, throwing something of fond smile in Lance’s direction, “seemed too good for you, anyway.”

Lance fought down a grin of his own, and he couldn’t help but think that that plant was just as pointed at the edges as her owner. “ _Bite_ me, flower-boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	3. books and saturn tattoos

His visits to the small flower shop became a habit after that, after Keith had roped him into buying flowers instead of a cactus that first time. It hadn’t gone without protest on Lance’s part, and he’d walked around the tiny store for nearly an hour, doing little more than nitpicking and criticizing every single one of Keith’s recommendations. Keith had almost kicked him out with basil at one point, simply because Lance was being a smartass who knew next to nothing about what he was talking about. It had all worked out in the end, he supposed, having walked out with a pretty bouquet of three tulips—Nyma had smiled and taken them with a quaint hum. Lance earned himself a kiss on the cheek.

It was closer than anything else he’d gotten from the lovely Jordanian girl, and he’ll be damned if he wouldn’t try his luck again.

Physical contact that was not initiated by him seemed like one step closer to where he wanted to be, and he figured if flowers got him moving - flowers should get him midway at least. Thats when it started - when he found himself faced with Keith on a routine schedule, one that skipped a week and had Lance go every Sunday. Though unlike that first time, Lance did his research; he came in with a flower in mind, and Keith supplied him with that flower and a few cocky remarks on the side. They’d developed their own little game of who could one-up the other in the smallest of things, from making fun of each other, to witty banter to flower trivia.

And with every flower he bought, Lance saw progress—he saw Nyma lean into him when he sat by her, and he saw his conversations with Keith extend past the simple ‘ _that’s a cool shaped leaf’_ , ‘ _goddamn it, Lance, it’s called a petal!_ ’ exchanges. It was _good_. And today was no different, Lance sitting on the floor, back against the high shelves, staring up at Keith as the boy organized pots, t _his place is really coming together._

“—and then we poured the rest down his shirt, man.” Lance gave a happy sigh, resting his head against the wood, “that’s what happens when you can’t _chug!”_ his voice thickened with emphasis, a victorious laugh resonating throughout the backroom.

He heard Keith scoff, but there was an unsmiling note of amusement there, “wow, you’re such a frat boy—it’s pretty gross.”

Lance looked up at him, taking in the way Keith reached for the higher shelves with just a small strip of skin baring itself between his black crew neck and those impossibly tight lycra pants. Lance swallowed, choosing instead to focus on the thin book tucked into the back of Keith’s waistband. It was a safe bet. He reached up and snatched it, heavily ignoring the indignant hiss that came as a prompt response. The slap of elastic on skin - that probably hurt - was worth the knee he got to the shoulder. Though, aside from his little bout of sadistic amusement, Lance needed something to distract him from how perfect he found Keith, because for some reason, it irked him beyond belief. _No one should be smart and witty and pretty, that’s legit not fair. Screw that shit, man._

“The fuck’s this? Haven’t seen this one before,” he muttered distractedly, turning the pale butterscotch cover over to read the blurb. It was a short book, Lance noticed, leafing through it with his thumb—it sounded philosophical, something about hidden treasure and finding one’s destiny. It wasn’t hard for him to decide early on that the book was probably not in his area of expertise. “Oi, Keith.”

Keith hummed, crouching directly beside him to rearrange some not-yet-sprouted peperomia. Lance hit the side of his thigh with the book, stretching his legs as far as he could in front of him—which left both still high and bent at the knee. He toed at the shelf in front of him; god, the room reeked of mud and dirt, all the flowers left outside. “Since when are you an all mystic guru buddha boy, huh?”

Keith’s entire boy paused, his mind, much like his arm, frozen midair. He turned his head to Lance, a confused crease between his eyebrows, loose hair sweeping over the expression, “do you hear anything that comes out of your mouth? What the fuck does that sentence even _mean_?”

Lance rolled his eyes, “oh whatever, I mean like - this shit’s deep.” he waved the book an inch from Keith’s nose, “what’re you doing reading this stuff?”

“Um, I don’t know? It’s a good read,” he shrugged, flawlessly rising from his squat to lean against a shelf, “you should give it a go.”

“Nah, man. I don’t do kids digging for buried treasure and pyramids and shit,” Lance’s attitude didn’t keep him from opening random pages and scanning through. Keith nudged Lance’s side with the tip of his foot, throwing him a gentle quirk of the lips that went unnoticed. Lance had been too preoccupied flipping through pages, reading proverbs.

“I don’t know, you seem pretty invested for someone who claims that this genre isn’t his forte.” Keith mused with a knowing smile, turning away to run his fingers over some clay flats on the opposite shelf, setting a foot in-between Lance’s risen knees to mess with the arrangement that fell directly in front of the lazing boy. Lance tore his eyes away from the flattering rise in Keith’s legs. _Squats, man_. “I’m done with it, so it’s all yours if you want it.”

That seemed to catch Lance’s attention. He pressed the book closed and looked up sharply, “you’re done with it? _Already_?”

“Yes?”

“Dude, you were legit just reading another book, like, last week—” Lance rolled the book in his palm, using it to point accusingly at Keith. “How?”

Keith looks over his shoulder with a pokerface, an expression typical of their interactions. “I work at a flower shop, Lance.”

“Is that your answer for everything?”

“Only for your dumb as all hell questions,” he rolled his eyes, lashes fluttering as he turned away, “think about it for half a second: there’s nothing to do here, this place isn’t exactly eventful. The most exciting thing that happens is when Shiro’s around and we play spades.”

“Your life is the worst, _wow_ ,” Lance cackled, using the book to swat the back of Keith’s tight thigh, “that’s so sad.”

Keith was silent for a heartbeat, biting back an insult and the heated flush that threatened his pale skin. He grit his teeth and refused to turn and face Lance, instead he continued to handle the plants after a brief moment of hesitation, “well, being a florist isn’t exactly considered a form of extreme sports, sorry.”

“Speaking of which,” Lance drawled, leaning on one arm to study the nails on his other, book pressed against the ground, “you never told me—how’d you end up selling over-priced leaves?”

“They’re not over-priced, you’re just fucking cheap.”

“Fuck you,” Lance took it in stride, completely nonchalant, “they’re leafy things that die after, like, four days.”

“ _No wonder you wanted a cactus,_ ” Keith muttered under-breath, shaking his head, “ _you’d kill anything else._ ”

“Speak up, _Heath_ , I can’t hear you.”

“Piss off, _Hans_.”

Lance laughed outright at that one. It took him by surprise— _Keith_ took him by surprise, by how quick he tended to be on his feet. “Well, spill the beans, mullet-man.”

Keith sighed, ignoring the nickname, there was no getting rid of it after all. It was something he’d learnt three weeks into dealing with Lance, that once a shitty nickname stuck, it tended to be permanent. He was just thankful that it was _one_ nickname, and not fifteen, like that poor friend of his that had come in the first day. Keith aggressively stacked one pot to the side, “I got kicked out.”

Lance’s amusement faded into a curious, hesitant smile, his eyes staring at the back of Keith’s head, “come again?”

“I got kicked out of the course I was doing at university,” he swallowed, pushing aside three cups of wilted flora, “I sat the exams, but ditched everything else. They didn’t appreciate that too much.”

Lance whistled, a little annoyed on Keith’s behalf, “enough to get you booted? Doesn’t sound fair to me.”

“Yeah, well, no university wants to sponsor a kid who doesn’t work for it,” he shrugged, but Lance could sense that under the indifference was a raging emotion. He just couldn’t identify whether it was hurt or aggression. _Wait,_ he paused, eyebrows knotting, _sponsor? What’s he—_

Oh.

Lance bit the inside of his cheek. Sitting up straighter, he set the book down against his stomach, “you were on a scholarship.”

Keith didn’t respond immediately, and Lance had begun to think he wouldn’t at all. He listened to Keith breathe steadily, before finally replying, “bingo.”

“Fuck, why don’t you just reapply or something somewhere else?”

“ _I work at a flower shop_ , for fucks’ sake, Lance,” Keith sounded exasperated, resting his forehead against the wood, “how much money do you think I earn, exactly? I can’t afford to go to a college as good as the one I left, especially not for the major I was in. And my reputation hasn’t gotten me too far with scholarships, if you haven’t noticed.”

Lance, for once, decided to be the civil one. He ignored the blatant hostility, “well, what were you studying?”

“Aeronautical.”

 _No fucking way,_ Lance’s mind supplied unhelpfully, and the rising ache in his chest was an uncharacteristic, green rage. It was not a feeling he often had around Keith. While competitiveness and petty annoyance were normal happenings, Lance had never felt more irrational anger towards the pretty male before that moment. “ _Engineering_?” He snapped, a little too sharply. Keith turned his body to face him him curiously, both feet between Lance’s as he stood bracketed by the other’s bent legs, their knees brushing.

Keith cocked his head, “yeah?”

Lance tore his eyes away from the confused grey pair of irises. _That’s rich,_ he was bitter—of course he was bitter, why wouldn’t he be, when everything he’d ever wanted was tossed away by a simple _florist_. Keith had had it all—an excellent university, a free-ride, and a major that was nearly impossible to get into. Lance would know, after all, he’d tried. The wrath boiled in his gut, and he tried his best to keep his outward expression calm - or at least marginally so. Given how slightly perturbed Keith looked, Lance figured he wasn’t doing a very good job of schooling his emotions.

Part of him didn’t care.

His mind couldn’t get over the fact that Keith was entirely alright with the idea of forfeiting everything, simply because he didn’t want to work for it. Lance set his jaw; he’d been busting his ass in a second-choice major simply to stay in, while trying his best not to sell off a kidney and a fucking lung to pay off his student debt. And Keith - _fucking_ _hell_ \- shrugged off _everything_. Lance’s eyes held still, glaring daggers at the wooden floorboards, “that sucks, buddy.”

“Yeah,” Keith agreed easily, stepping out of Lance’s space to move onto the next shelf. Lance didn’t know whether Keith was socially stunted, or genuinely didn’t care enough to notice the irritation in his tone and the difference between his once relaxed posture and this new rigid frame. “It sucks. But they were a bunch of dicks there anyway, I’m not really into that.”

“Really, now.”

“Yeah, man.” Keith seemed impatient at the idea of his peers, his hands moving faster. Lance didn’t look up, the sound of scraping clay was his only reference point, “they were arrogant shits - Shiro still goes, but I don’t know how he does it.”

“Sounds awful.”

Keith frowned, finally registering that Lance’s uncharacteristic choppy answers were due to something more than just distraction. He turned around to the sight of a sulking child: knees brought in tight, eyes narrowly avoiding any part of Keith. With a sigh, he dropped down, sitting across from Lance, awkwardly placing a hand on Lance’s high knee, “you okay?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” Keith pushed, rocking the knee, “you sound bitchy.”

“Wow, thanks.” Lance rolled his eyes, glaring back at him apathetically, “you’re a total charmer.”

“See, now I know that’s sarcasm,” it was spoken matter-of-factly, with an exaggerated sort of seriousness, “improvements all ‘round.”

Lance couldn’t help it, he gave a soft laugh, looking away with a smile. _Fuck_ , he was still angry at this kid—but he knew it was irrational. He was prone to jealousy, but he figured it didn’t justify bulling the kid—after all, he didn’t _want_ to hate Keith, but that small flower of envy continued to blossom in his chest. He figured it wouldn’t ever really leave, but looking at that marginally hopeful expression, Lance decided he wouldn’t let it get out of hand. _At least not_ extremely _out of hand—but he can bet his ass I’ll make him regret it._

“Small victories,” he breathed, redirecting his bittersweet smile at Keith instead, “small victories all ‘round.”

Lance wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the brief tremble at the corner of Keith’s lips or not, that slight stutter that promised a smile. But before he could guess further, Keith gave his knee a shove and got to his feet. He reached out to him, “I’m done here, and I’ve still got some daisies to sell you.”

“Yeah,” Lance agreed, looking down at the extended palm, noting the little Saturn tattoo on the inside of Keith’s wrist where the sleeve hiked. He took the hand, “better not over price those too, you asshole.”

“Dear goddess, you’re so _cheap_ ,” Keith shook his head deploringly, before exhaling loudly and crossing his arms, “so what do _you_ study, anyway?”

“Astronomy.” Lance said conversationally, seeming to regain his confidence at the drop of a hat, his grin widening, “now, don’t go underestimating it, I’ll beat your ass from here to Ursa Major. Shit’s hard.”

Keith gave him a small, unseen smile, and listened intently as they left the room to Lance’s idle chatter about the stars and Mars and celestial rocks.

The book was left forgotten on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wonder if any of you caught onto which book i was referring to :')


	4. pale poison and sundays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (book from the last chapter was the alchemist by paulo coelho - go read it. seriously.)

Keith was, for the lack of a better word, completely fucked. He knew he was, the old lady that swung by on Tuesday mornings knew he was, and he was pretty sure the neighbor’s dog also had an inkling of just how fucked Keith was—because he didn’t need an astute observer to tell him that he’d _slowly fallen for_ t _he dumb college boy who made it a habit to irritate him_. He didn’t know when it happened, or how or why - because the weeks had turned into months, and time and time again Lance would show up on his doorstep with a story and the name of a flower on his tongue. Keith would hail their routine, and then Lance would leave with an evergreen grin on his stupid face.

Keith shifted in his spot, curled up behind the counter and out of sight. He cradled a cylindrical glass flask between his fingers, transparent liquid sloshing when he tipped it back to swallow. _This sucks,_ he thought, delicate features contorting at the burn that licked itself down his throat, _it’s_ _not fucking fair._ He set the flask between his folded knees, head falling into his open palms. When Lance had first walked in on him, with that fierce friend of his, Keith was entirely convinced that he neither liked Lance, nor his over-confident aura. He was a quiet person, one who liked the solidarity of reading in a flower shop at dusk, with only a little orange seeping into the space for poetic purposes.

He didn’t like loud obnoxious assholes who thought they were funny when they really weren’t.

And yet there he was, sitting under a cashier register, half a fifth of vodka in his system, pining over the very man he sold flowers to—flowers Lance gave to his _girlfriend_. There was nothing funny about how horrible it felt, but for some reason, Keith found himself laughing at the absurdity, because of all the men who’d come onto him, he picked the only one who _didn’t_. Keith picked the _straight_ boy who bought _flowers_ for his _girlfriend_ , his probably very attractive girlfriend who was not a dropout. He took another thick swallow, before letting his head fall back against the desk. _This sucks._

It didn’t help that Lance was attractive, despite the fact his attitude still needed some major adjustments. He was good-looking in every way Keith was not, with his deep Mediterranean tan and those dark blue eyes, and although he would never admit it out loud, Keith knew Lance’s personality had magnetic qualities - puns very much included. People seemed to gravitate towards him because that’s just how he was, and someone like Keith was undoubtably nothing more than background noise. He grabbed the bottle and swallowed the rest of the fifth in one go. It was the same moment that he’d set the glass flask down, that the gentle chime of the door sung. His eyes widened, _oh fuck me_ —

“Hey, pretty-boy dropout, I need your help!”

Fucking _Lance_. Keith beat a silent palm against his forehead, how could he forget, it was Sunday after all, and it was late enough in the afternoon for Lance to have woken up. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ —

“Uh, Keith?” Lance called, head craning to look around the seemingly empty shop, and before he could step into the backroom, Keith figured he had to get up. In Keith’s defense, it was the usually skipped Sunday between weeks where Lance was a no-show. He’d assumed he’d have the shop all to himself that evening. No one bought flowers in the late afternoon, just as no other stores opened on the weekend. Accordingly, he’d cracked a bottle open, and decided to wallow in his own unrequited, miserable feelings. _So much for that._

Keith pushed himself without much grace to his knees, knocking over the bottle in the process. He gripped the edge of the desk and scrambled to his feet, trying his best not to look as wasted as he felt—as he _was_. He prayed that the drunken blush he was usually susceptible to was lighter that day, because if anyone on the planet looked drunk when they were, it was Keith. His face was prone to betray him like that, ivory skin tinting dark magenta, heated and bruised, eyes wide and dark with intoxication. It was no secret amongst those who knew him that Keith could not - at least visibly - hold his liquor.

He swallowed, looking back at a startled Lance with wide eyes, “yeah, yeah - uh - I’m here.”

Lance cracked a smile, “what the hell were you doing under there?”

“Nothing,” he ignored his own voice crack, fingers coming up to scratch at his exposed collarbone, the wide-necked pullover sliding down one shoulder. He closed his eyes, _goddess, I must look like a fucking mess_. Lance walked forward, and Keith didn’t have to open his eyes to know that Lance’s cocky, shit-eating grin was in place. It always was when he thought he was onto something.

“What’s with the hair?”

When he opened his eyes, Lance was inches away, leaning forward on his elbows across the desk, the sleeves of his olive jacket rolled up. His eyes were trained on something a little ways over Keith’s head. _Oh fuck no, please no_ —Keith bit the corner of his lip and felt along his head, _oh damn it_. He had forgotten to take his hair down from the small, antenna like bun at the top of his head, the rest of his shorter hair falling out at the back. It was for good reason at the time, it was hot - the store was hot and he was drinking and fucking hell, hair is annoying, there was nothing else he could do, damn it.

Lance brought his eyes down to Keith’s own with a patronizing smile, “you look cute.”

His brain short-circuited. “Um, thank you?”

“You reek of booze, man.” Lance laughed, leaning back before placing a cool hand on the side of Keith’s neck. “Fuck, what did you drink? You’re a furnace, and you look like you’re about to pass out.”

Keith wanted to knee him in the crotch - first for touching him, and second for noticing he was drunk. He knew that Lance’s gestures were nothing more than teasing, maybe friendship if he could call what they had that. But although Keith wasn’t a middle-schooler with a crush, about to swoon at every passing glance—he couldn’t deny the lurch of his heart beat at the feel of Lance’s gentle fingertips. It didn’t seem fair to him, for someone to have so much of a hold over how he felt. No laugh or smile as wide as that should make him feel the things he felt. It was gross. Even with the liquor tracing his system internally, Keith couldn’t find it in him to do much other than scowl.

He slapped the arm away, “sue me, asshole. I’m a—” he slurred slightly, “—fucking _big_ boy, and I can do what I want.”

“You look fourteen, sweetheart,” Lance’s amusement was near tangible.

“I don’t look fourteen, fuck you.” In Keith’s head, it had sounded like a pretty solid comeback, but given how hearty the laugh he got in response was, Keith started doubting its sting. He crossed his arms, body swaying on its axis only slightly as he raised an eyebrow, “you’re in a good mood, why?”

Lance faked hurt, “wow, easy there, Keith - I might start thinking you don’t want me to be happy.”

Keith reached up to rub at one of his eyes, the drunken feeling beginning to spread over his nerves more so than before. He was wasted, but slowly, even he could see that the second wave had yet to hit shore - and it promised a whole different sort of coastline when it did. He figured that although he didn’t have much of a say in the matter, drinking around Lance was a bad idea. If sarcasm had been wasted on him before, there was no way Keith was going to understand it now. “No—I want you to be happy, dick, that’s the problem” he glared, words coming out in something of a long string of grumpy, barely intelligible syllables, “gods, Lance - ugh, you’re so dumb.”

He couldn’t see Lance’s pleasantly surprised expression. Keith’s mind was starting to spin, and the warmth in his body told him he wouldn’t be standing straight for much longer. In hindsight, it didn’t seem like a good idea, but wasted men never were the best thinkers; Keith rocked forward, grabbing Lance by both his shoulders, using the others body as leverage to crawl onto the desk. It was a move he would regret hours from now, when he was bent in half over the toilet, thinking over every embarrassing action he’d ever taken. It didn’t matter at that point, though, because as he hauled himself, his chest inches from Lance’s own, it wasn’t on his mind - nothing was on his mind, not the fact that Lance smelt like cheap cologne and deodorant, or that steadying hand that found the small of his back, scorching the skin between his pullover and the waistband of his yoga pants. Keith just wanted to get onto the desk before he tripped.

“Jesus, dropout,” Lance breathed an affectionate laugh against his neck, and Keith only hummed in return as he sat back, legs folded and eyes closed. _Gods_ , it felt so good, being on something sturdier than his own two feet. “You’re completely out of it.”

Keith gave him a long, unmodulated hum, agreeing with eyes still closed.

Lance bopped him on the nose with one finger, “wake up sleeping beauty, today’s important! I seriously need your flower magic.”

Keith’s eyebrows drew in frustration. Lance needed to stop complimenting him because the tight feeling in his chest was ruining his drunken high, “but I _always_ give you flower magic, ugh,” he whined, his eyes lidded, “what’s different this time.”

“This time, _you_ get to choose the flower,” Lance smiled widely, pulling himself up to sit next to Keith, resting his chin on the other’s shoulder, “and today is the big day - this one has to be special, you know? She has to really, really love it.”

Keith’s heart fell a little at the thought that this might be their anniversary, or something equally as romantic - and he was just the messenger of emotion, with his own tucked away in the seventh hell. It was a disgusting feeling, and as he turned towards Lance, looking down at those wide playful eyes, Keith wanted to die. This is why he hated crushes—his luck tended to hold his head underwater. He’d never had a significant other that was of his own choosing. He was never forced into relationships, but Keith couldn’t turn away a person who asked him out, their nervous stuttering and hopeful eyes did him in—he found himself agreeing, just to avoid the awkward exchange that came with turning them down. It didn’t take them long to figure out he wasn’t as interested in them as they were in him, though.

His drunken thoughts reminded him of the last person he pined after—a gentle, godlike specimen—and his mind supplied him with the ending to that tale as well. There he was, still friends with the man he would’ve given anything to be with, working with him in Allura’s flower shop. He was working with Shiro in _his girlfriend’s flower shop._ Looking at Lance then and there, so close and so warm, made Keith curse the fates for his rotten luck.

“You want me to choose the flower?” he whispered, their proximity making it hard to speak louder, face flushing further, “you trust me to do that?”

“Of course, man, you haven’t failed me yet!” Lance grinned, “see, we make a good team.”

Keith’s breath hitched. _Fuck, Lance._ “No making fun?”

“Nope.”

Keith swallowed, looking a little more vulnerable than he would’ve liked had he been more aware and in control of his expression, “promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay.” He nodded, though his entire body felt heavier than he remembered it being. He slid off the counter, landing in a manner much less agile than he would’ve sober, his feet almost toppling over each other. Lance reached out, gripping his upper arm to steady him, and Keith wished he hadn’t. He wished Lance would just stop touching him, because every chuckle that landed so close to his ear, left Keith wanting to hate Lance all the more. He didn’t understand where the attraction came from - there were plenty of attractive individuals out there, many of whom had personalities that were far less of a hassle to deal with. But Lance, stupid Lance, with his cacti and his astronomy and his indirect flirting, was killing Keith on the inside - slowly but surely.

Unrequited feelings sure did suck.

He took his arm out from Lance’s grip, their fingers brushing lightly with the movement. Lance hadn’t seemed to take notice of it, instead gesturing him forward, “lead the way, teletubby.”

Keith looked at him, completely confused, head cocked with that ridiculous little bun nestled at the top of his head, short hairs sticking out of it. Lance shook his head with a muttered ‘ _forget it_ ’. Equally exasperated by the constant references he didn’t get, Keith frowned and wrapped his fingers around Lance’s wrist, tugging him forward towards the back room. Keith, drunken mind hurt and a little angry, knew exactly what he was going to do. The intent was, to some extent, malicious, driven by raw emotions of irritation and blatant jealousy, both of which coursed through the fluid, intoxicated frame of his body. Even the voices in the back of his head, those of reason and willpower, were in unanimous agreement. It was a rare moment where Keith didn’t have to throw reason to the wind, because tonight, reason was on his side. At least, his own brand of reasoning.

They walked into the familiar room, the hollow shelves fringed with shades of green, small traces of dirt peppering the ground beneath their feet. The scent of dew and mud was strong - one Keith was sure Lance had already gotten used to, given how often he was around. The far wall was large, made entirely of greenhouse glass, with small metal frames lining its length. The small amount of light was comforting.

Keith let go of Lance’s arm in favor of looking around, his numb mind trying to focus on where he’d seen it last, where he’d seen exactly what it was he was looking for. Lance stood idle in the background, palms pushed into the pockets of his jacket as he stared at the back of Keith’s curiously shifting head. “Uh, Keith, aren’t the flowers supposed to be outside?”

“Not these,” was the distracted response, Keith running a finger along the shelves, eyes tracing over the pots. He tripped over his feet, steps falling asynchronous to the movement of his body, “Shiro moved these inside.”

“ _O_ -kay, then.” Lance said, feeling a little awkward as he watched Keith ignore him for the most part, “need help looking?”

Keith didn’t respond, and he could argue that at that point he hadn’t even heard Lance speak—because out of the corner of his eye, a smudge of disgustingly happy yellow bruised the almost monochrome setting. Keith stopped in his tracks, turning towards the color without hesitation. His mind hadn’t sobered, but the feelings that were plaited in his chest were vibrant and vivacious in nature, far from the numbing qualities he’d once found characteristic of alcohol.

He stood silent in front of a nicely made bouquet of the prettiest sunshine yellow carnations this deadbeat town had to offer. He turned to Lance, who was standing in the corner picking at his cuticles, with a smoldering, drunken smile. “These are on the house, just for you.”

Lance’s hesitant smile grew. Keith decided then and there that he’d feel guilty when he was sober - but right then, he would enjoy that rushed embrace that had Lance’s arms tighten around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CARNATION, Yellow - you have disappointed me; rejection/hate.


	5. chai and threadbare backpacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lied, this will probably be a chapter or two longer than i initially planned it to be hahah oops
> 
> your comments make my life :))
> 
> _edit: lance isn't cuban here because this was written (and finished) before any of the vld nationalities were confirmed. this is an oldass fic, guys - i started writing it in july 2016 and had it all posted (sans epilogue) by september 2016. so chillax fam and enjoy the only-relevant-for-a-single-line headcanons. it's a fanfic._

He stared at the peeling paint of his bedroom ceiling, eyes flat with disinterest. She had pressed the carnations back into his palm without looking at them, eyes unapologetic and sadistically jovial when she declined his offer, shrug light on her shoulders. Her smile hadn’t wavered, expression unfaltering in its amused indifference, a lack of empathy present in how she’d flipped one braid over her shoulder, a burning palm set platonically on his forearm. His features were guarded, the hesitant smile disappearing entirely from his expression. His months of courting had done little in the way of emotion, and the lust that had once led her touches and curled her lips was gone - because the shallow desire was swallowed whole by something more brutal in nature; it was swallowed by something that was always there. He supposed it was his fault, to have let himself get strung along into something that was transparent and superficial from the start.

He hadn’t fallen for her—

—but he _could’ve_.

He could’ve easily fallen in love with her, and that feeling made way to sick, coiling lividity in the pit of his stomach. He’d been naive, not that he’d expected much in the beginning - but the realization of having gotten too deep, and the idea of drowning in her color-coded speak set the candlewick of pride alight. He hated it. The carnations sat on his bedside table, undefined and unwatered.

He wanted them to wilt.

* * *

It was strange though, the burning need to visit the small flower shop, despite having been turned down by Nyma’s repulsively genial smile. So he did, and in the week that followed, he’d gone every other day, the sight of Keith making the visit all the more rewarding. The negativity, though, had also lasted well into the days that followed; his shoulders slanted with disinterest, and even with Pidge’s prompting, reactions were seldom given. Lance was in no mood for any of it. It wasn’t as though this had been the first time he’d been turned down so savagely, but he had to admit, that it was the first time he’d been so brutally played by someone he’d been invested in.

She had been a passing interest, at the start—pretty in her height, and her wide hips and her small laughs. It was something any interested man could hardly ignore, and Lance fit the bill to an undignified T. And with each passing flower, that hand on his thigh had gone higher and higher, until what remained of Lance’s sanity were a series of nervous chuckles. Though, that had been how Lance found himself in her presence, it hadn’t been why he’d fallen beneath her heel.

Nyma had shown an interest in him as a person.

That little fairytale was disproven by the dead flowers a week into wilting by his bedside, but initially, she _had_. She asked about his interests, and his family and his study, always with that pretty smile dancing on her features. She’d asked him about everything, from the stars to his own desires, and Lance would’ve fallen for it again if she’d chosen to do it a second time. Like a man dying of thirst, he would’ve swallowed the sea salt. Even the freebie brownies Hunk set on his table, time after time, when he went to study at Coran’s coffeeshop, had little affect on his mood; after all, only one thing did.

 _Keith_.

It was ridiculous at first, but even Lance had noticed it: he was never angsty with Keith. The reason wasn’t that he didn’t feel like a heaving pile of shit, but it was more of the fact that he didn’t want the florist to see him down—especially when Keith placed so much effort into doing the exact opposite in the most subtle of ways, like having Lance take sips of his grossly sweetened honey lemon tea, or the small jokes he would try to make in an attempt to keep up with Lance’s constant banter. Just the thought of that drunken admission— _“I want you to be happy, dick, that’s the problem”—_ brought an unreal feeling of warmth that made Lance, like a dumbass, continue to visit the rickety old flower shop down sevenths.

And Lance, like a dumbass, bought a flower every time.

He kept their banter alive, their jokes and their petty rivalries, watering those instead of watering the dying plants all over his apartment. He sensed a change in their relationship, something deeper than he’d once thought—a shift that had him leaning into Keith when they sat next to each other, trying to get a better look at the smiles he tries to hide or a hint of that neutral scent of aloe vera shampoo. And Keith seemed more than willing to do the same, snatching things out of Lance’s hold, unflinching when the other gripped him around the waist and grappled him to get those things back. Lance would be lying if he said that those visits to the shop were not the highlight of his days. 

He hadn’t told Keith that whatever he’d had with Nyma had fallen apart.

It was irrational, but he felt as though telling Keith would mean that there was no other possible reason for him to be visiting the store as often as he did—because it was true; there was no reasoning that made sense. Accordingly, with every visit he made that week, he’d pick out the flower Keith liked the most, and tell him Nyma would love it. He’d make up intricate tales that revolved around a fabricated love-story of a romance that died before it even begun—because it gave him a reason to see Keith, and that seemed like reason enough. Sitting on the ground in the backroom, their knees brushing, one cup of tea between them seemed like the best way to spend his afternoons after class. Slowly, Nyma had become a character in his stories, one that left a bittersweet feeling lurking in his gut.

That week, Lance had flowers under his pillow, in his kitchenette drawers, on the living room table, and dried up inside the books he’d borrow from Keith—ones that were almost always hit or miss. It didn’t matter though, because once it had become habit for Keith to finish a book and hand it to Lance, he’d started highlighting the phrases he liked best, dog-earing pages, and leaving little witty comments in the margins that made the book worth reading anyway. Lance, however, hadn’t escaped Pidge’s sharp tongue and keen observation—they hadn’t given him much of a break regarding anything at all.

_“Oh look Hunk, I think Lance might be literate!”_

_“How’s bookclub, Lance—she must be a real looker, huh?”_

_“That guy at the flower shop's dropping squats from here to kingdom come, isn't he, Lance?”_

_“Praise the goddess, Hunk—he actually showered!”_

Pidge was a cruel thing, Lance learnt, and today was no different. He’d passed by the coffeeshop, ordering himself a blonde roast and one grande iced-chai to take for Keith—something he found himself doing without the other asking it of him. Lance had watched him sip on every type of leaf-juice under the sun, and he was a little surprised that Keith worked at a flower shop rather than a teahouse.

“Who’s the tea for, Othello,” Pidge mused with a complacent smile, eyes observing a waiting Lance from the corners. They sat on a high wooden stool against the mahogany service circle, a thick textbook on cosmology and the multiverse resting open under their elbow, the pages lined with all sorts of chicken scratch that probably held more intellectual value than all of Lance’s university papers combined. Pidge bit the end of their cheap ballpoint, running a finger along the fringe of a venti black coffee. Pidge was a wonder who ran on bitter poison alone, and it hadn’t surprised anyone.

“I hope you choke on the lid and die, Piglet.” Lance rolled his eyes, throwing them a tight, sarcastic smile.

“Ever the romantic,” Pidge said monotonously, eyes lidded, “oh, be still my heart.”

Lance shook his head with a grin, looking back at Hunk who was busy fixing up his order, “hell yeah I am, you’re swooning on the inside just admit it.”

“I’d say ‘whatever stops the tears’, but I’m pretty sure you’ll cry yourself to sleep anyway.” Pidge snorted, laughing slightly as they turned back down to write something between the lines, glasses pushed up into their pixie cut, teal sweater-sleeves brushing their bruised knuckles. They continued conversationally, “so, you’ve been going to that flower shop a whole lot recently.”

“Yeah,” Lance agreed, nodding distractedly.

Pidge sighed, sitting up in their seat with a heaving breath—Lance’s focus shifted from Hunk - who had been lidding the ice-tea - to Pidge, who stared at him with an eyebrow high into their hairline. He knew that look, because he was on the receiving end of it more often than not, and it usually hailed long tirades about what was right and what he was doing wrong in explicit detail. Least to say, the look tore a nervous swallow from him.

“Yeah,” he repeated, staring directly into frameless hazel eyes that were judging him impossibly, “I’ve been going there a lot.”

“And, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that that drink’s for our buddy Keith, right?”

Lance pursed his lips, a small scowl taking root on his features, “what of it?”

“—and, hypothetically speaking, of course, I’m going to assume you’ve been buying a shit ton of flowers this week, too.”

“What’re you getting at?” he snapped, and Pidge’s stern front faltered into a kind smile.

“Nothing. I just have one question, Lance,” they took the glasses off their head and threw them onto the open book, turning to him with a solemn expression, a rhetorical question on their tongue, “think: just who is it exactly you're buying all these flowers for?”

* * *

Lance left the shop in silence. He took the tea in one hand and the coffee in the other, leaving a couple of bills on the service bar without so much another word to either of them, even when he heard Hunk’s hushed inquiry of ‘ _what’s gotten into him_ ’. He hated when they did that—he hated when Pidge spoke to him in riddles, and left him with a modern-day fucking proverb that he was meant to pull apart himself. What made it even worse was when they were serious about it— _what the fuck does the brat want from me, I’m not buying the flowers for anyone!_

 _Then why are you buying them,_ a voice in the back of his head, one that sounded suspiciously like Pidge, responded. It was a valid point, he supposed, one he didn’t know the answer too, and much like with everything else that bothered Lance, he pushed it to the far back of his mind. His shoulder rolled, adjusting the threadbare heritage backpack braced on a single side, the black canvas shifting against his knit navysweater. _Whatever_ , he scoffed, rounding the familiar corner to where he knew the flower shop to be, _what does Pidge know anyway?_

He huffed, looking dejectedly down at the drinks, one driving small prickles of cold into his palm, the other burning the tips of his bare fingers. He couldn’t help it—his mind, not unlike a cat, began twisting and turning around all the differences between the two unrelated drinks. The comparison was, in reality, a little silly, and was pretty useless when it came down to it. He looked up, deciding to ignore the biting ice and the heaving warmth. It didn’t matter. What people drank had little to do with who they were and how compatible that made them; Pidge’s question resurfaced.

Lance came to a stop in front of the flower shop, his frown still prominent. There was a moment of hesitation that stood between him and the door, something that stopped him from taking that single step forward. The wind breathed coolly against the side of his face, the dimming lights in the sky promising a cold evening. Lance bit his lip, the peeling teal of the store having become something of a given—but it shouldn’t have been. There was no reason for him to be there, there was no reason for him to waste that extra money that he got from side jobs on something as trivial as—

It wasn’t trivial; it was completely useless.

Pidge had been right, without saying much of anything at all. Lance didn’t know what they had meant, but this had been the only conclusion that pieced itself together in his mind as something logical. The store looked beautiful, as did the young flowers that broke its aging frames with painted pastels, the remnants of sun saturating petals and stems, air breaking against the hung wooden sign that swung to the sound of its own creaking. Lance noticed with a heavy heart, that it felt like _home_. More so than it had any other time.

The pattering of footsteps broke the wandering silence in the streets, one that was otherwise accompanied by the rolling of bike wheels against the pavement. Though, the cyclists had long since headed home, and those footsteps, as light as they were steady, neared Lance’s standing form. He turned his head towards the sound, and sooner than he thought was possible, any thoughts of Pidge and their riddles sunk like sediment to the bottom of his thoughts. He kept his smile small, controlled.

Keith ran, head twisted to stare at the street as he moved, headphones pressed over his ears, the sun falling behind him. Strong, bare thighs moved fluidly, falling out of dark running shorts, tennis shoes traded in in favor of a pair of slender burgundy sneakers. Foot after foot landed with calculated precision, the rounded muscles of his calves rolling under an untainted canvas, knees bruising from the cold. Lance felt his mood color pleasantly, smile widening slowly with every heave that brought Keith closer. Keith with his tight black shirt, one that hugged the diameter of his tight waist, under that cropped fleece jacket. Keith with his loose bun and flushed face and full rose violet lips.

Lance cocked his head smugly when the boy turned to him, finally slowing to a conclusive halt a foot away, eyes wide and startled. He panted, tongue tracing over rolled lips, letting the headphones drop to circle his neck before throwing Lance a curious smile. Chest heaving, he broke the silence.

“Hi,” it was simple, entirely at ease.

“Hey,” Lance responded with equal ease. It felt right, despite the simplicity of the exchange— _Keith doesn’t fuck me over with riddles_. He cleared his throat, eyes falling from the dark gaze in front of him to the tea still icy in his palm. He held it out to Keith, shrugging slightly. “Figured you needed your daily fix?”

A look of pleasant surprise took hold of Keith’s delicate, decidedly feminine features. His eyes fell to Lance’s hand, before looking up from under the ebony of his thick, short lashes, letting his gaze frame the other. It hadn’t been the first time Lance had brought him a drink, but Keith’s expression was unchanging, no matter how routine it became—that innocently shocked expression that asked why he’d done it. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“So? I wasn’t asking for permission, mullet.” Lance’s eyebrows raised, mouth curled and smug, “besides, your sweaty ass could use a drink.”

“I’m not that sweaty,” Keith grumbled, the innocence fading to make way for irritation, face contorted. He snatched the drink out of Lance’s grip, staring at him intently as he brought his lips to the blue straw, taking a large sip. “I hope I let your ass fall apart from the cold as you waited.” He said finally when he pulled away.

Lance barked out a laugh, “my ass is perfectly sculpted and very much intact - but _alas_ ,” he sighed dramatically, closing his eyes, palm to chest. He opened one eye to match his shit-eating grin, “—I _must_ digress: your worry is just charming.”

“Your ass is flat.” Keith scoffed, straw between his teeth as he fought back a smile, “ _Brazilian plateau_ flat, Spaniard. Looks like you’ve got nothing on those Latinos, huh.”

Lance shrieked, mouth gaping offendedly, “fucking—oh my fucking—how _dare_ you,” he shoved Keith’s shoulder softly before narrowing his eyes comically, coffee held at arms length to the side as he leant forward, nose a finger’s width from Keith’s, “—at least my flat-ass can _squint_ better than you, you Korean boy-band _reject_ —”

It was at this that Keith allowed a loud, melodic laugh to tear itself from his throat, eyes slid shut. His head fell forward, shaking a thick fringe loose from the bobby pin that held it. His smile fell wide, flawless around the inverted skyline of perfect teeth, his tongue held captive between them. He looked back at Lance from under the expressive furrow of his sculpted eyebrows, trying hard to muffle the sound. Lance felt the heat crawl up his neck as he decided that that lopsided smile, the one that curled to the right and rose to the left, was by far a sight to be seen—from the way it made one of Keith’s lidded eyes narrow a little more than the other, to the way it left his lower lip bitten.

 _Fuck, this kid is beautiful_.

Keith sighed contently, coming down from his high, two graceful palms wrapped around the plastic cup. The sun had broken horizon behind him, a saturated halo painting the town, “you’re really awful.”

“You called my inherited, sexy Spanish ass flat.”

“You’re such a fraud, dear goddess,” Keith shook his head, fighting the smile as best he could, “you’re, like, third generation on your mom’s side or something, _McClain_. You’re probably less than a quarter-churro; the other majority percent is entirely 7-Eleven.”

Lance narrowed his judging eyes at Keith, taking a long, deliberate sip from his lukewarm coffee. He curled an unimpressed lip, “you just summarized the entirety of the United States’ character as 7-Eleven.”

Keith’s face fell back into his calm, smug expression, moving past Lance towards the door of the flower shop. He dug in his pocket for the keys, “calm down, Fabio Lanzoni, I’m pretty much 7-Eleven too.”

Lance gave a loud, pretentious snort, following Keith into the shop, “Lanzoni is half _Italian_ , you uncultured swine.”

“Sorry, Mario.”

Lance stopped dead in his tracks, choking lightly on the sip of coffee he’d taken. He brought the cup down from his lips, staring at the back of the other’s head solemnly from the door frame, “Keith, no—you can’t _not_ know that. That’s not okay.”

Keith looked over his shoulder innocently, pretty as can be with his fluttering eyelashes, “oh, sorry—was Luigi the Spanish one?”

Lance’s eyes slid shut as he counted to ten, breathing steadily.

_We’ll work on it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're not out of the woods quite yet - and neither are they. this chapter is more of 'the calm before the storm' haaa bye keith
> 
>  
> 
> wait does that count as a spoiler


	6. tinted bottles and curling smiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, wow. i'm a little shocked that so many of you are enjoying this! it's making this all the more fun to write!
> 
> have some long awaited drama as a reward for all your amazing comments and kudos :)
> 
> (and as requested, trigger warning: very brief mention of drunk driving / no accidents)

They were drunk. The situation didn’t needed a genius to tell Keith that they were out of it, sitting under the counter with a bottle of whiskey bracketed between their thighs, laughs pressed into the whispers they thought no one would hear. He didn’t understand how he got himself into these situations, how he found himself realizing elements of it only half way through. They’d walked into the shop to the sound of Lance’s incredulous, and mostly angry tirade, about pop-culture references—and much like anything Lance was passionate about, including women, Keith pushed it to the back of his head with offensive ease. In reality, he couldn’t care less about jumping Italian plumbers who fought turtle humanoid creatures.

He didn’t care about the content of the conversation, that much was evident in the way he distractedly hummed along to things he barely understood. What he cared about was the passionate movement of Lance’s eyebrows, and the glazed glare in his blue eyes, tan skin flushing with frustration or excitement. They were the little things that Keith observed about Lance that drew him in—from the way he’d smell flowers around the shop idly when he thought Keith wasn’t looking, to the way he picked at his fingers as he spoke. He was so human, and human was normal and secure.

Human was forgiveness—Keith just wasn’t sure _why_ Lance forgave him so easily. At least, he wasn’t sure why Lance had treated him normally after the incident with the carnations. Keith wouldn’t have forgiven himself—and although he had been drunk at the time, the reasoning stood stark even in his sober mind: he wanted to hate Lance, and he wanted Lance to know he hated him through flowers because Keith was unable to tell him any other way. He wanted so badly to be the one to reject rather than the one subjected to rejection. It was stupid reasoning, seeing that Lance wasn’t pining after _him_ , after all. It hadn’t mattered, because in that small moment, he’d had a hold over Lance’s emotions.

In that moment, Keith had the upper-hand in his own emotional turmoil.

It was only when he’d sobered that he’d realized the consequences extended beyond that—to Lance’s girlfriend. Sitting, cheek pressed to the porcelain white of his toilet seat, Keith had cursed the day man fermented grapes by the hillside. He had royally fucked up. The message was intended to tie itself around Lance’s mind, not sabotage his relationship. It was almost idiotic that it hadn’t occurred to him sooner. But then the morning saw Lance again in Keith’s flower shop, all smiles and brazen comments and ‘ _she loved them_.’ Keith had assumed that, of all things, _that_ would have ended whatever friendship he had been kindling, protecting like two palms cupping a candlewick from wild winds. He was just thankful that the carnations had gone over the girl’s head, and Lance hadn’t confronted him about it. Although Keith regret his stupid, very much drunken choices, he was not about to question a good thing.

He decided that this was normal—that Lance was normal.

Keith liked normal, normal was good. Lance being normal was good, and he liked it. He liked Lance groaning _predictably_ when he thought Keith hadn’t been paying attention, he liked it when Lance _casually_ put an arm around his shoulder, breath minty and clothes smelling faintly of cigarettes. He liked it when Lance’s smile tugged to the side a little more than normal, and he liked how - right now - Lance swung the bottle between them with practiced ease, holding his liquor like a king. Keith reached over, their short breaths weaving together, as he grabbed the bottle from between Lance’s steadying thighs. The evening was the most fun he’d had in a while, even if - Keith supposed - pulling out one of the bottles he hid from Shiro around the store may not have been his best idea.

But Lance was _laughing_ , head tilted back against the bottom of the counter, with his shoulders rolling and his eyes shut, and his expressive eyebrows drawn in—looking at it, Keith just couldn’t find it in him to regret his decision. Lance, in the dim light of that single hung light bulb, looked happy, and Keith felt a rush of affection he’d never admit to swell within him; Lance was enjoying the time he spent there, and that was enough of a reason, Keith thought, to down ten more bottles of liquor.

“My god, mullet,” Lance sighed, tainted breath warm on Keith’s face. Both of them had long discarded the jacket and sweater they’d worn, the articles laying abandoned in a heap at their feet, shoved between their bodies and the low shelves packed with packets of seeds and empty palm-sized flower pots; the room heaved with the heat between them. Keith traced a bead of sweat trail its way down Lance’s craned neck with his eyes, watching the sharp, accentuated line of his Adam’s apple rise and fall with his swallow. His head lolled towards Keith, “I’m fucking _wasted_.”

Keith hummed a response, their proximity making it almost as hard to come up with a coherent response. Instead, he ran drunken, sleepy fingers through the back of his hair, tucking in the loose strands that came free of his bun. They were so close, and his mind was fogged to hell and back with the smell of cologne, and sweat and that musky scent of flowers he’d grown so used to. He brought his hand down to the neck of the bottle he’d snatched out of Lance’s hands moments before, bringing it to his lips. He tipped back, clumsily hitting the back of his head on the wood, a low whine escaping him. He held the bottle out to Lance as he rubbed the bruising spot.

Lance gave that rich laugh, taking the whiskey in one palm while using the other to help Keith by stroking the back of his head, “ _easy_ there, flower-boy,” his words folded into each other with a very faint and almost indistinguishable slur. _King_ , was all Keith was able to think of, somewhere, the sober part of his mind questioning how Lance seemed so put together despite drinking more than half the bottle on his own. Lance’s voice was deep and hoarse with intoxication, “don’t die on me, holy shit.”

“‘m okay,” Keith frowned, face entirely flushed, his eyes lidded. He was like a child who’d woken up a little too early—it tended to happen to him more often than he would like. Alcohol tended to put him to sleep, his body and mind slowing down, posture faded and neck weak. It had been embarrassing when he was still in university, because even if Keith hardly cared for what others thought of him, there was something distinctly pathetic about a pouting college boy, sleepily sulking on a couch at a lively club. He had only gone out with his colleagues a couple of times, twice of which saw him on Shiro’s back as they walked home, drawing circles into the other’s shoulders before promptly falling asleep and waking up the next morning with a cruel throbbing behind his eyes.

Lance made it seem so easy, though—easy and relaxed. Keith didn’t lose him in the midst of unfamiliar faces at a club, because Lance was there, in _his_ little flower shop, drinking his way into the early evening with a smile that wasn’t shadowed by plastic pride or vanity. Lance was enjoying himself, and it brought Keith a drowsy feeling of happiness. Lance let his hand drop after a few more steady brushes of his thumb. Keith’s eyes slid shut at the feeling, before he let his head fall languidly onto the other’s shoulder; Lance didn’t move away. _Yes_ , Keith’s breaths were a little shallow, _this feels good._

“You’re so docile tonight, god,” he heard Lance say through a smile, interrupted only by a brief swallow of whiskey. Lance smacked his lips, setting the bottle down, “you’re _really_ different when you drink.”

Keith blinked slowly, staring at the low shelves in front of them, “isn’t everyone?

He could feel Lance turn his head, lips brushing against Keith’s hair as he spoke, “am I?”

“Not really.”

Keith earned himself a small snort that morphed itself into a quiet laugh, “god, that was so anticlimactic, you asshole.”

“Sorry.”

Lance gave a small, but genuinely sated sigh, putting the empty bottle beside him. He threw one of his long legs over Keith’s bare thigh, weaving their knees and brushing their ankles as he leant into him, temple resting on Keith’s damp hairline. The only soundtrack was their breathing, and the only sight that graced him was the sanded rosewood bookshelf in front of them, its cubic cavities filled with anything but books—jars of fallen, dried leaves and wilted flowers, plastic bags heavy with seeds or clipped vines, all lined under notes stuck with gum onto the slender brace between each shelf. The unsoiled flowerpots were home to plastic flowers and plastic ballpoint pens and fragile origami cranes, their exterior lined with hand-painted clay designs, nearly childish in their simplicity and vibrant nature. Lance’s eyes traced the capital script, distinctly feminine, on labels torn and stuck haphazardly onto everything—he smiled, eying the corner shelf, where a small succulent sat atop three unread books, a crooked label stuck onto the violet pot.

 _RED_.

The shelf was so obviously Keith’s—where he’d notched the sides in boredom with the tip of his key, to the messy list of orders stuck to the side of the slot, names crossed and rewritten, his thin chain necklace hanging off the side where he’d thrown it. Lance grinned, god, the kid was such a sap, given the amount of dedication he placed into such a simple job. There was something endearing about the way Lance had once watched him talk about plants, their names, their origin and their history, taking a break from Lance’s talk of constellations to tell him the meaning of a particular flower. Keith hadn’t known he’d been rambling, and that had made it all the more fun when Lance told him, teasing him with it. 

Head still rested in its place, he noted how close their bodies were, how he felt the indent of Keith’s knee and the warm length of his body pressed up against Lance’s own torso and sweat damp white shirt. It was nothing sexual, and no part of it made Lance want to do anything more than bask in the drunken warmth they both shared. The feeling was bizarre, entirely surreal—he was there, a little drunk, with a lounging _Keith_. A sick feeling wove itself into his gut, one that told him that the domesticity of this little exchange wasn’t right—that their plaited limbs and whiskey breaths felt too _common_ for friends—for people who didn’t know much about one another at all. Lance bit down a sad frown, his tranquillity having begun to fade into something else entirely, “hey, flower-boy, you asleep?”

Keith gave him a long, unmodulated hum that Lance felt against his shoulder.

He swallowed, “Keith.”

Another long, more agitated hum.

Lance shifted, sitting up to draw his head off Keith’s and unweave his body entirely, legs sliding back into their initial position. “ _Keith_ , get up.”

Keith, albeit at a slower, more languid pace, did the same, his body a undulating mess of tilted torsos and loose limbs. He sat back with closed eyes, head rested against the wood behind him. His voice was a little hoarse, stretching out the syllables in a quiet mumble, “yeah?”

“This—is weird.”

“It is?”

Lance paused, “you don’t think so?”

Keith’s eyes reopened, and Lance noted how dilated and fat the pupils of his eyes had gotten, swelling to hide the dulled grey of dark irises. The idle light above them only just brushed the edges of their thighs, and the sharp curve of Keith’s septum, painting the tips of his profile with a saturated orange, the deep magenta of his lips shining damp and darker. There was something about a drunken Keith that was unlike anything Lance had ever imagined. That first time - when he’d dealt with Keith in his drunken prime - was definitely far from what he expected from the serious, and often brooding male. Keith was put-together, witty, and easily angered - he was not a slurring mess with a blush tinted neck and a set of docile expressions. He was such a calm drunk, and even though Lance was the complete opposite, preferring the loud laughter and swinging hips of tequila, he felt Keith’s mood influence his own. _What happened to the short-tempered asshole florist I’ve had to deal with for weeks?_

Keith was silent for a long time, and Lance had begun doubting he’d receive a response at all. Finally, Keith rested his head on his own shoulder, staring at Lance with blank eyes, ones that seemed to narrow on him despite the haze. His question was quaint, but sharp, “should I?”

Lance looked away, “I don’t know. Yes?”

He heard Keith swallow drunkenly, “are you not enjoying this?”

“I am.”

“I don’t understand,” Lance turned back to him, watching that naively contorted expression of confusion, “then what’s the problem.”

“This feels—” he sighed, and gestured randomly with his hands, “ _homey_ , I guess.”

Keith hummed, a small, genuine smile finding his face, “yeah— _yeah_ , it is. I’ve never really had this before.”

That caught Lance’s attention. His eyebrows, lazy with intoxication, were questioning. Keith hadn’t really talked much about himself after that one day where they spoke about his university, and Lance had noticed that Keith kept his own personal details to a minimum, letting Lance do most of the talking. Albeit Lance mostly talked more by nature, and disclosed a little too much information, he hadn’t noticed how little he knew about Keith before that moment. He was aware of the little things, like the three - _three_ \- spoons of honey Keith put in his tea and the fact Keith blinked slowly when he was sleep deprived. Lance didn’t know anything about where Keith had grown up, or how his home had smelt, or who his parents were. He hadn’t heard any stories of childhood friends or past lovers, and Keith hadn’t brought it up.

Until now.

“You’ve never swapped spit via whiskey bottle with another dude before nine in the evening in a flower shop before?” Lance joked, bumping his shoulder sidelong into Keith’s with a smug grin, “I’m honored.”

He received a small intoxicated chuckle in return, breathy and barely audible, “I know right? It’s pretty hard to believe.”

“Completely.” Lance shrugged, faking seriousness, before falling into a pleasant smile, “seriously though, you’ve never gone out drinking with friends? Not even in your hometown?”

“Well, yes?” Keith didn’t sound sure, hand palming at the back of his flushed neck, “I’ve gone out drinking before - back when I was in university, but I’m not so sure about _hometown_ drinking, or whatever.”

“ _Seriously_?” Lance looked genuinely shocked, turning onto his side sharply to face Keith, his eyes prying and his voice loud. His own brand of _drunk_ had begun hitting, the whiskey finally coming to set in his bloodstream entirely, body a cocktail of numb nerves and dopamine, “I mean I’m not saying it was _legal_ or anything—but you’ve never gotten drunk in high school or something? Never smoked pot around a campfire with some no good friends? Sat on a beach high off your ass on some pretty pill?”

Lance’s breath stunk of the coffee he’d had and the whiskey he’d downed, face coming inches from Keith’s as he leant forward on one arm. His torso hovered, the smell of cologne and worn cotton stung Keith’s nose, leaving his mouth as dry as his thought process. _Please sit back, Lance I beg you._ Keith couldn’t help the timid flutter of his eyes, his body leaning nearer simply to _feel_ the other’s vicious proximity. It was breathed onto Lance’s lips, hesitant and quiet, “no?”

“No _way_ ,” he laughed in return, head tipped back before falling forward again, distance close and unchanged, “were you the innocent kid who used his weekends to study?”

Keith glared softly, eyebrows knit. He used two fingers to press into Lance’s cheek, pushing his head away, watching it turn back to him again, “fuck you, _no_ \- but I’m guessing you were the prick who fucking ruined all his friends. You’re such a dick, your school probably had to, like - like - like—” Keith’s frown deepened as he slurred, “—I don’t know, put a _disclaimer_ on you or something - an apology to all the parents who probably hated your ass.”

Lance’s laugh didn’t get old, and Keith was convinced that the sound never would—neither would the sight of Lance’s tipped head, or the impossibly straight line of his ivory teeth, or the way his Adam’s apple rose and fell, completely synchronous to the swell of thick, deep chuckles. Keith couldn’t breathe, so instead he forfeited breath in favor of staring openly with widened eyes—though that choked heave of breath had forced itself from between his teeth when Lance dropped his head directly into the crook of Keith’s shoulder, lips trembling against his neck, laugh breathing across the rise and fall of a pale clavicle. It all left Keith balking—both at the weight against his shoulder, and the sweat-damp brown hair brushing his nape. Even the slightly chilled tip of Lance’s nose stilled him.

 _He’s going to kill me_ , Keith’s frozen, intoxicated mind supplied, his skin scorching, and his face pressed into tight - shocked - lines. _I’m going to die._ His sharp features rounded on surprise and bafflement, he was confused - entirely and completely, frozen in mind and body, because this was a different experience than any he’d been subjected to before. The feeling of Lance’s angled nose and the soft tremor of his eyelashes against Keith’s skin was undoubtably a first, in more ways than one. Even when he had liked Shiro, even at the peak of one of his darkest moments, Keith had never felt the way he did in that moment.

Perhaps it was the proximity that fucked with his head, or the sound of that unyielding laugh - though, whatever the case presented itself to be, Keith was left unprepared for the consequences, eyes wide and blinking, a thick knot of air rolling in the pit of his lungs, refusing to let him breathe. Before he came to, Lance pulled himself away, letting his body fall back as he came down from his drunken high with a series of soft chuckles that left Keith feeling more conflicted than he ever had.

Because Keith was not an idiot.

There was no reason for Lance to be touching him, absolutely no reason for those lips to have brushed his neck or those jeans his bare knee - unless there was something more playing out in front of him, something his intoxicated mind couldn’t narrow down; _maybe he likes me._ The thought startled him, but soon washed itself away as Keith traced Lance’s dazed profile. He was so obviously out of it, and that seemed like a proper reason for his behavior, eyes laced onto the shelves he seemed so preoccupied with whenever he came to the shop. Keith felt his mind stutter, _of course not - of course he doesn’t_. He watched Lance smile gently; Keith turned away, staring at the hardwood floors, still in the aftershock of satisfaction.

Lance was quiet, majorly so, and Keith had begun to wonder if the other had fallen asleep. He refused to look up to check, and thankfully, he hadn’t needed to, because soon enough he saw Lance shift out of his peripheral. Lance fell from his crosslegged position, leaning forward on one arm to reach into the lower shelves, fingers pushing around for something he seemed too wasted to grasp. The sound of scraping clay and the shifting of paper was the only indication Keith had gotten, eyes loyal to the fissures and stains that painted themselves against the dark wooden floorboards. 

Finding what he was looking for - or so Keith was left to assume anyway - Lance fell back into his seat, cradling whatever it was in his lap. He gave a gentle scoff, almost as though he didn’t believe what it was he was looking down on. Although curious, Keith had learnt that the more he looked at Lance while hammered, the worse it would be for him. Hailing that knowledge, he slid his eyes shut.

Lance dropped something directly onto his head.

Keen reflexes called for Keith’s eyes to snap open before having closed. Drunk or not, his hands had taken to moving up the back of his head, running into the soft velvet of a flower before the band that held his knotted hair; a flower crown. The layered breaks of tender petals found the edges of his fingertips, delicate and many, plaited into each other in a thick cluster of color that he knew well.

 _Carnations_.

He supposed the fates had a cruel sense of humor, bitter old ladies that knit his life into ugly stitches. Keith felt the bile rise in the back of his throat, because it wasn’t the carnations that bothered him, or guilted his moderately shamed conscience—it was the fact that this was not any flower circlet. This was not made in a random bout of boredom by Keith. This was a flower crown Shiro had timidly woven for Allura when he’d asked her out, swollen with the dark reds and the whites of seven now dead and wilting carnations. She’d taken it from his hands with a kiss and confession. The crown slid to the side of Keith’s head, and he let it.

He felt his hand fall limp, the feeble flowers folding over his thick eyebrows. He looked back at Lance, who seemed so at ease, smile gentle and relaxed, satisfied as he traced the sharp lines of Keith’s face with his eyes; Keith’s breath stilled when the other leant forward, fingers brushing softly over his temple, tucking a strand of loose hair behind Keith’s ear before readjusting the crown with a knuckle. Lance cocked his head, smile wide and impossibly close, the dampness of his forehead easy to see, glittering in the dim light.

He was lovely, and it made Keith realize that he hated himself a lot more than he hated Lance.

They were closer now than they had been all night, and Keith figured the alcohol had finally made home in Lance’s bloodstream completely and entirely. It was just a shame, that the moment Lance lost his inhibitions was the same moment Keith couldn’t find his either.

Breathed out against the corner of Keith’s lips, Lance sighed, “you’re fucking beautiful like that - a damn _god_ or something.”

 _Gods_. It was then that once again Keith leant the hard way that hiding bottles around the store was not a bright idea, that drinking in the shop was an awful idea—that drinking _around Lance_ , or _with him_ , or anything of the sort that involved intoxication, under the worn register of a back alley flower shop made Keith’s susceptibility to stupid decisions much higher. But he was there, and Lance was there and there was little he could do to change the situation but bring them closer—

—and he did, leaning his body forward into Lance, breathing in the scent of sweat riddled cologne, taking in the sight and smell of Lance’s lips, damp with the liquor he’d been drinking. Keith was high, high off of many things at once, and he supposed none of them were what his sober mind would deem fit for someone like himself. Though none of it mattered, not in that moment—not with the way Lance’s hair fell in his face, left months without a haircut, not with the ungodly laugh that broke every silence, or the warmth of his trembling fingers when the’d touched Keith’s temple before, or the way Lance had yet to shy away from the intimate tightness of their distance.

Keith was afraid; this was wrong and they were drunk and Lance wouldn’t want this. _He_ wouldn’t want it to be like this, and while Keith remained visibly unshaken, internally, his actions and his mind were both mutinous to logic. He didn’t know who could adhere to any logic with Lance’s dazed expression staring back at them, and his nose a breath’s proximity from brushing their own.

He supposed wasted men never were the best thinkers.

And wasted men, he knew, often got what they wanted, even if it was for a heartbeat—they thrived on impulse and lust and desire, and Keith’s mind, riddled with the doubts and regrets of yellow carnations, hadn’t halted the way he’d moved forward, drunkenly pressing his parted mouth to the corner of Lance’s smile. Keith’s lips were soft, steady and off central target, their length feeling the damp and impeccably still break of Lance’s own.

There were no fireworks save the heat that stained Keith’s already reddened skin, wilting crown sliding further down the side of his head when he leant forward, his torso twisted, both palms pressing into the ground between their bodies for support. He couldn’t think and he couldn’t breathe because for once in his life, his rash choices were too rash for even his own contemplation. Keith was entirely unaware of his body, where it began and where it ended, because all he felt was the ridged, unresponsive fame that sat before him. His eyes trembled, sliding closed—

_because this didn’t feel right._

None of it did, not the familiar taste of whiskey or the unfamiliar feel of Lance’s damp skin against the tip of his nose. Keith liked normal, and this was not normal. This was unfamiliar, this was territory he had not breached since his pathetic flings in high school, and neither the feel of Lance’s lips or the thrum of intoxication could change just how _horribly_ Keith had miscalculated. The kiss was not a long one, although in his mind the turmoil had lasted a lifetime. His eyes opened, the tremble of his lips falling back with the shaken frame of his own body—this was _wrong_ , _wrong_ , _wrong_. His body stumbled back, drunken and fluid, limbs struggling to push Keith to his feet—but he had to, he _had_ to—because that sharp, _sober - my goddess, he’s sober -_ and very much unfriendly stare Lance was giving him was breaking in every last shred of bravery he’d had, setting fire to the nerves along his arms and raising the hair on the back of his neck.

He fucked up.

He fucked up, and so he chose to do what he does best: Keith ran. With a mumbled ‘ _sorry_ ’, he got to his feet, swaying on the axis of his body, struggling to grab onto something—the shelves, the desk, and the papers that had come loose in his hands—for balance. His mind was numb, the song of regret already playing in the forefront of his mind, only this time he was sure that sobriety would have been better than intoxication. Sober, he would’ve brushed Lance off with confidence and a cruel excuse, sober he would’ve told Lance it was a joke and that Lance would _kill_ to have someone like Keith want him. 

Sober, Keith knew, he would have kissed him again.

The thought broke the last of his front and Keith’s hurt glare deepened, stepping over Lance and tripping on his own feet to get to the door. He grabbed the keys off the hanger, pushing out of the door and out of the store and into the night, the dull bell chiming behind him. Getting onto the leather seat of his parked vespa, Keith didn’t hesitate to roll his palm and his heel, driving off. It was only when he was a mile away that he realized with dead apathy on his face that Lance hadn’t followed him or called his name or held him back.

Lance hadn’t moved.

The flower crown was lost in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CARNATION, White: goodluck + pure love  
> CARNATION, Dark red: deep love/affection + admiration
> 
> i love irony, don't you?
> 
> also: i've gotten a lot of comments praising the atmosphere of this fic (thank you!), so i was wondering if anyone was interested in the playlist i use while writing - if you guys are, let me know, and i'll post the tracklist on tumblr or the actual thing on 8tracks!
> 
> until next time, yogurt cups!


	7. rippling lakes and vespas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you guys like this! :)

It was like a pebble hitting the surface of a lake, ripples breaking against every bend of the shoreline with slow yet deliberate precision. The water itself shed small waves, of different shape and size, but all uniform in their nature—that was what realization felt like. And the final point of realization, Lance decided as he sat morbidly still in a vacant flower shop, was the wave shortest in height and strongest in force. It struck him in the back of his head, a wildfire that refused to be put out by all the swallows of whiskey he’d taken, a flame he had not seen coming in the slightest. Keith, Lance’s mind slowly registered, _liked_ him. 

Keith _kissed_ him. 

Keith with his gentle growls and slanted eyes and space-black hair had found something to be wanted in _him_. It scared Lance more than he would’ve liked to admit - and even his bathroom mirror, subjected to countless shitty pep-talks and suave pick-up lines, would have to sit this one out. There was nothing good about how he felt as he picked himself off the wooden floorboards, nothing victorious about the cautious and outright cynical stare he’d given Keith before the other fled, entirely off balance. There was nothing about this that felt good for him, because all it did was make him feel more and more of an ignoramus, one who’d lost his way in a labyrinth of flowerless-vines and emotions. 

The signs were there, he realized, sliding the door to the store closed behind him, unlocked. He was just the one who hadn’t focused enough to see them clearly - everything from the smiles they shared, to the tea, to Keith’s outright trust in Lance enough to hide under a desk and get shit-faced with him. Lance prided himself on not being an idiot when it came to the realm of romance, and accordingly, the realization that he was entirely in the dark was almost as shameful as his reaction to the kiss itself - or rather, he should say, the lack thereof. 

But he had panicked, and he was drunk, and Keith was beautiful and unattainable, and Lance was pretty sure that’s why his mind had never picked up on any of the hints the other had dropped him. There was something almost ethereal about Keith that night, and Lance’s mind was taken by that surreal glow that saw Keith’s sculpted eyebrows, and his pretty lips and his elven features that were delicate yet so, so strong. The crown had suited him well, beautifully even, the dark wilting flowers highlighting deep blues in the shadows that fell against his face. Lance had initially meant it as a joke, filing drunkenly through the shelf for something to pester Keith with, something to bring back the lively banter. He found the crown and a half-witted, obviously stupid part of his mind thought it would be the perfect opportunity to drop it onto Keith’s head, call him a princess and make some - possibly - offensive comments. 

He didn’t expect to trip and fall on his own joke, almost as much as he didn’t expect the thing to suit Keith in the first place. 

It was partially his fault - or at least that’s what Lance told himself. Maybe he’d been too close, too affectionate in a way that may or may not have been the cause in leading Keith on. Lance found that from a young age, he wore his youth like an open chest cavity, the naiveté and physicality pouring out of him in waterfalls—and these were the perfect examples: Keith’s kiss and Nyma’s rejection. He was very much unlucky in love. 

That thought held itself still in his head as he walked himself home, tripping on the toes of his dark construction boots, hand running itself through his hair the other gripping his belongings. He tugged on the short strands at his nape, an incredulous sound escaping him. There was no doubt about how conflicted that night made him, how out of his comfort zone he’d felt when the unreal feeling of Keith’s lips pressed against the corner of his own. The reality, though, remained: out of his comfort zone, a drunken thought reasoned, didn’t mean it was _bad_. Simply because Keith had taken him by surprise hardly meant that Lance hadn’t liked it. The problematic situation made thorny vines tighten around his lungs—he didn’t know whether he’d liked the kiss or not. 

He didn’t know whether he liked _Keith_ or not. 

Lance was too drunk for this train of thought, but he couldn’t help it - he couldn’t help thinking of Keith, and his smile and that rejected look that had taken hold of his features. Lance wondered if he looked like that when Nyma had rejected him the week before; he hoped he didn’t. But guilt wouldn’t settle as the final emotion—Lance didn’t feel guilty, because Lance didn’t know how he felt about the entire thing at all. The hiss of confusion was violent in his ears. 

He was supposed to be heartbroken over Nyma—he _was_ heartbroken over Nyma. 

Yet, the only images that plagued Lance’s conscience were those that saw grey eyes and dark lips. His mind’s eye only saw the lips that had him so out of breath, and the pretty glare of a sharp gaze. 

That night, as Lance laid himself down on a threadbare comforter, drunk on whiskey and insomnia, he cursed the only name he could.

_Aphrodite_. 

* * *

 

For days, nothing changed, and it only served to feed the endless _what ifs_ that wrapped themselves like a fist around his throat. Lance went to university, emotionally exhausted and unresponsive, and passed by the flower shop on his way home—though he never found it in him to do much more than watch the teal paint from across the street. Maybe this was what he needed, because going to see Keith hadn’t made sense initially, and now it would only be a source of uncertainty and emotional chaos for both of them. The last thing Lance wanted to do was lead Keith on, only to brush everything off as though it was nothing—as though the chemistry that lit fires beneath their skin never existed.

Lance swore to himself, from his spot staring at the pretty pastels from afar, that he would not do to Keith what Nyma had done to him; he did his best to convince himself that that wasn’t what he’d already done. He would not go into that store, and he wouldn’t look for his answers between the shelves of peperomia and dirt. Lance swallowed, turning to walk away - no, he wouldn’t do that, not even if the answers were written between Keith’s pretty eyes. The walk home seemed wrong and a little desolate—as did every walk that came after. There were many, and they passed slower than torture, a week that saw Lance floating in the space between what he wanted and what he needed. 

Day in and day out, Lance tried peering through the glass, his heart hoping to see Keith - even if they didn’t talk. He wanted to see Keith, and see Keith _smiling_ and _happy_. Lance’s chest tightened at the thought that he was the cause for upturning the expression. 

The shop was always empty. 

There were people, sure—a pretty woman with platinum hair and a celestial smile and rich clay skin, and a broad male with a warm glow in his eyes—but _neither of them were Keith_. They were never Keith, it was always someone else, and that became the norm. Lance noticed that Keith had stopped coming to the store almost entirely. He ignored the flare of panic that burnt in the pit of his stomach at the idea of never seeing Keith again. They hadn’t exchanged addresses, not numbers, and Lance noticed with a sinking feeling that he didn’t even know Keith’s last name. 

That day he stood a little longer as he watched the pretty woman from across the street step out to lock the door. His eyes followed her down the street and out of sight. Lance couldn’t help but feel responsible, but he didn’t know what exactly it was he was responsible for. All he knew was that Keith wasn’t there and there was a strange feeling taking root and growing inside him. Before it could get any worse, Lance walked himself home again, leaving the shop behind him—because that’s what Lance did best. 

He ran. 

Metaphorically, he chased foot with foot, as far as he possibly could from the problem—but physically, Lance’s feet scraped the pavement with slow and heavy disinterest, his body feeling more tired than it ever had. The stars seemed to frown down on him, the now warm night inking the sky above him; the week seemed a lot longer than it should’ve and for a moment, Lance imagined he was a traveller lead by the small glint of the North Star. But Polaris was no navigator of emotion, and Lance noticed that he couldn’t find the star that night; Polaris was the easiest of all to find. The stars, it felt, had not only abandoned him, but also made the nights longer than they should be. 

He sighed, tucking his hands in the pockets of his sweater, head tipped back, eyes closed. _Gods_ , his days felt strange and empty—Keith had become a part of almost everyday and now he wasn’t part of Lance’s life at all. A small part of him wished he would’ve kissed back, because then Keith would still be around, and Lance wouldn’t have to think twice about anything he did around the other. Anything would have been natural - their proximity, their smiles and their newly found habits. He wouldn’t be questioning himself and his feelings. 

Lance wouldn’t be questioning why he kept going to the shop after he had no reason to do so. 

Pidge wouldn’t have spoken in riddles.

Hunk wouldn’t have given him that small, patronizing smile.

And maybe - just _maybe_ \- Keith wouldn’t have left him all alone that evening.

He couldn’t help it, he _missed_ him. He missed him so much and so stupidly and it had only been a little under ten days of attempted emotional abstinence. Lance missed Keith, he missed how he smelt, and his floppy eighties hairstyle and his aloe vera shampoo and the small taps of his short nails against the wood of that cashier. He missed his smiles, and his dazed drunken touches and those unnaturally cold fingertips. He missed the witty banter that was delivered with a flat, unimpressed stare and he missed that ‘ _I work at a flower shop, Lance’_. 

Lance wanted to walk into the shop and buy a flower just to watch the pleased expression on Keith’s face - a cocky one, that looked too proud and too childish and too sweet; ‘ _—I dare you to tell me I don’t save you with my impeccable taste, asshole_ ’. Lance would never agree with him outright, but Keith had no idea how much it made Lance’s day when he’d get giddy over a sunflower or a lily. 

His mind short circuited; he stood in the middle of the sidewalk, entirely immobile. _That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why I buy the flowers._

_I buy the flowers for Keith._

He bought the flowers every time because it was _Keith_ who offered, and it was _Keith_ who smiled, and it was ultimately _Keith_ who made Lance feel good for wasting his money on something as useless as a bunch of leaves— _petals_ —that were bound to die. _That’s what Pidge meant_ , he felt the lightning in his heart thunder, _that’s the riddle isn’t it, you piece of shit—that’s it._

A smile found it’s way onto his expression slowly, because Lance didn’t love Keith—

—but he _could_. 

Lance had feelings for him, feelings of some sort—and Lance could fall in love with Keith easily if he thought about it for long enough. The feeling was a subtle, gentle warmth that was very unlike the raw vigor and attraction that swayed with Nyma’s hips. This was mellow, and it felt like home, and if it had a scent, it would probably smell of cinnamon gum and flower shops. He let out a small, disbelieving but victorious laugh, giving a small hop before he sprinted forward down the street. He may not have been buying flowers for the most traditional reason - after all, he wasn’t giving them to anyone - but now, he was certain of just who it was he was buying them for.

_Tomorrow, I’ll be there,_ he swore, _you better be fucking ready, mullet._

* * *

 

Lance passed directly in front of the store three days in a row, walking on the right side of the street, ready to look in and see Keith. He was ready to talk to Keith, even if he was a little anxious and a little confused. It was on the fourth day that Lance’s excitement reached it’s peak. His neck cocked, eyes catching on a scraped red vespa parked in the alley beside the store, Lance stared. His head, once bobbing to the beat in his earphones, fell still and his pouting mouth widened into a jovial stretch.

It was an old thing, so obviously driven, its deep wine hand painted, thinning in areas and rising with the stroke of a simple brush, the cheap acrylics peeling near the curve of the frontal fender. Lance’s foot steps slowed as he approached it, eyes tracing the notches on the side, dug intentionally into the swell of it’s inspection panels. Small lettering, gentle etches of stars and Saturn and astronauts ran along the amateur paint job, with no particular pattern save obvious tedium and keys. 

The vespa rested itself on a thickly pebbled ground, patterns of stone running colorful in shades of umber and ivory, falling quaintly between a white bricked building, and the sturdy teal he’d come to know so well. The warming sun was high, its light breaking against the array of pastels, breathing life into the buildings’ lengths, where characteristic vines wrapped around pipes and dug into the clefts in brick and wood. Lance’s eyes traced the paring white bench set against the building, and the rusting bicycle, before falling back to the age-old vespa with a smile. In small, familiar writing, Lance traced the unfamiliar name - under a fighter plane - with his finger, knowing well who it must’ve belonged to: _KOGANE._

_Keith’s back._

_“Aha!”_ Lance laughed, pumping a subtle, victorious fist in the air. That light little flutter of hope flared in his chest, _maybe the loser’s actually there today—no—_ Lance corrected _—he_ is _there_. His steps got faster as he left the alley, a hand going into his pocket to pause the music on his phone, fingers tugging the earphones out roughly. A part of him was also a little afraid of the outcome of all this, after all he had no idea how he’d even approach Keith, or what he’d tell him, or how Keith would react to any of it. There was no reassurance that this would end well. Something began nagging at the back of his head when his palm reached towards the door, getting ready to push on the spherical knob, his own features contorted and reflected in the bronze. 

_What if Keith was only drunk?_

He refused to believe that, and with finality set between his shoulder blades, Lance took in a deep breath and pushed into the store, basking in the gentle chime that announced him. The store was no different than it ever looked, maybe the colorful break of spring brought a certain vibrancy to the plants that wasn’t there before, though Lance couldn’t find it in him to pay attention, his heart speeding at the sound of a subconscious gunshot, pumping towards an unseen finish line. Though, the one thing that caught his attention was - probably - the most important of all.

The person manning the desk was not Keith. 

He was a handsome man, who looked back at him curiously, a gentle smile tugging at the edges of his features, almost questioning. Lance didn’t feel his expression instantly start slanting itself into a disappointed frown, but it hadn’t seemed to affect the man in front of him, who cocked his head silently. He was a sight, though, the young and hormonal part of Lance admit through its own disappointment. The man stood tall with broad shoulders, upper arms thick and coiled with strong muscles, a flat chest hidden behind the fabric of a black t-shirt. His body was constructed much like a soldier’s, in comparison to Lance’s own swimmer’s build, with a thick neck and a jawline strong enough to cut through diamond.

Lance’s breath hitched when he finally focused on the man’s features. He drunk in the handsome face, one marred by a gash that tore from near temple to temple, rising with the break of his slender nose and falling with the curve of his cheekbones. _That definitely wasn’t obvious from across the street._ Lance didn’t want to be rude, but he couldn’t tear his staring eyes away from the scar-tissue. Time had done little to heal the aging wound it seemed, the pale rose pink standing stark against the man’s equally pale skin. Lance finally let his eyes climb up to the knowing gaze that looked at him silently, gentle smile in place. 

The scar did little to take away from how _handsome_ the guy was. 

Lance swallowed, a little startled. His thought-plates shifted into place with a dull click, “you’re Shiro.”

The smile widened into a small grin. Shiro crossed his arms over that wide chest— _oh my gods, is that a prosthetic?_ —“yes, that would be me; can I help you?”

“Uh—yeah, yeah, you can,” Lance balked for a few seconds, distractedly nodding, trying his best to stop staring at everything about the man. He’d only heard of him from Keith, who’d made the man out to be something of a god. Looking at him now, Lance couldn’t help but agree—and it wasn’t about the sheer adonis-like beauty that dipped his back and sculpted his collarbones. A man with battle scars could not be more than a mortal, because a man with scars meant he was one that bled. Something about Shiro, however, made that reasoning void. Lance felt like he was standing in front of king, and although his gut had failed him recently, he had a feeling that Shiro was as close as it got to a god. “Um, please?”

Shiro smirked softly, pleasant, “you haven’t asked for anything yet.”

“I didn’t?”

“No, not really.” _Fuck my life,_ Lance wanted to die, _why am I like this?_ Shiro’s laugh only made him want to sink into the ground beneath his canvas shoes. “It’s alright, I’m pretty sure I know who you are. Lance, right?”

Lance winced, “yeah, that’s me.”

Shiro gave him a tight smile before sighing heavily, eyes dropping to the bouquet laying on the register. He leant his back against the shelves, “you know, I’m kind of glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

_That’s nice_ , Lance thought hysterically, mentally preparing a eulogy in his own favor because he had a feeling no one would do it for him. He bit his lip when Shiro’s eyes fell back to him, a little more serious than before. Lance knew the answer, but found himself asking anyway,“what about, pray tell?”

“Keith.” He hadn’t missed a beat.

Lance groaned internally. He didn’t want a lecture, because he hadn’t come for that - but given the way Shiro stared him down, Lance had a feeling that his intentions didn’t matter. He would have to take whatever threat the other had probably prepared for him, one that undoubtably included some form or another of absolute emasculation. Lance looked at the set line of Shiro’s jaw, and set his own. While he may not have looked as intimidating as the man before him, he sure as hell knew how to hold his ground. With a thick swallow and a frown, Lance raised a challenging eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes.”

“Shoot, then.”

Shiro let his shoulders fall, his expression following close behind with a kind smile, “I wanted to thank you.”

_Wait—_ what _?_

_“_ Why would you thank me _?”_ Lance asked, his defensive front becoming unguarded. His face kept it no secret: that was the last thing he expected to hear from Shiro, not with the determined stare he’d gotten from him only moments prior. Lance felt his own features twist into bewilderment, not knowing at all where this conversation was headed. It had been easy to assume hostility, but Lance didn’t know how to handle situations like this. _I should’ve taken up Hunk’s offer to teach me how to be a decent human being after all._ The sad part was, the thought was not a half-assed joke. 

Shiro unfolded his arms in favor of resting them onto the desk, elbows maintaining the weight of his torso as he beckoned Lance forward. Lance, still confused, cautiously approached him, lip rolling between his teeth. He was entirely out of his element, and his only company was a man he’d just met ten minutes beforehand - if not less. _Oh boy_. “Tell me, what do you know about Keith?”

Lance didn’t know how to answer, so he didn’t. 

Blinking at his silence, Shiro spoke instead, “Keith’s—well—” he hesitated, one palm coming up to knead at the back of his neck, eyes bound on the flowers an inch from his rested arm, “he’s a lonely kid, you know? A really unlucky one too.”

Lance pursed his lips and thought of Keith’s university experience. A dull bitterness rose on his tongue, “unlucky?”

“Yes, entirely and absolutely,” Shiro looked up at him, a solemn crease between his thick eyebrows, “he’s been in gutter one too many times.”

Lance’s giddy feelings seemed to simmer, as his envy came to a boil. It was delivered with the utmost apathy, his normally expressive voice dulled into a strict monotone, “he was studying aeronautical.” 

“He was.”

“He was on a scholarship.”

“Yes.”

“He got booted.”

“Yes, he was.” 

With every short answer, Lance felt his buried anger start to bud anew. He’d once held his feelings deep, and urged himself to forget about it, for Keith’s sake, for Keith’s smile and for his own sanity and their friendship, but this man was pushing on all the wrong buttons. Lance’s chest began to heave as he tried to maintain the apathetic expression that had begun to fade into transparent hostility. It all reminded him of how much of a half-assed ‘ _success_ ’ he considered himself. His mother would say otherwise, her hugs still heavy on his shoulders in memory, but it changed nothing. Her pride didn’t change the fact that Keith had given up everything Lance had worked so hard to attain—only that he never really ‘ _attained_ ’ it at all. 

Yes, he could fall in love with Keith, easily and absolutely. Yes, he liked seeing the kid smile, and yes, he wanted nothing but the best for him too. It was all good and well, but none of it changed the slight sadness that came with knowing just what Keith had had. It was a green lens to look through, he knew - but he couldn’t help himself. With a twitch of the eye, Lance sneered.

“Oh yeah, he sounds _horribly_ unlucky,” he scoffed, “try working three jobs and a fucking major.” 

“ _Lance_ ,” his name sounded stern, chiding, and if he thought Shiro looked intimidating before, the expression he wore then made Lance want to stick out his lower lip and act childish. It was akin to the looks his father threw him at the dinner table years ago when he intentionally stepped on his sister’s toes. “That’s not _luck_ , not in the slightest. What got him there was effort and hard work—and, ultimately, whatever he chooses to do with that hard earned position is up to him. It’s not for any of us to decide, or judge, for that matter.”

Lance looked away with crossed arms; _he’s right._ He knew Shiro was right, he’d always known. It was fucking annoying. 

Seeming to understand how childish Lance tended to be, Shiro sighed and shook his head, “enough of that—this isn’t what I meant by luck, Lance.”

At this, Lance let his eyes roll to their corners, “what did you need from me, then?”

Shiro looked at him, long and hard through slanted eyes that were much kinder than Keith’s, but more calculative and experienced. For a moment, Lance thought he was going to be asked to leave, and the thought bothered him a little. He didn’t want to leave before he saw Keith, and he _wouldn’t_ leave before he saw Keith. Shiro, though, did nothing of the sort; instead he stood straight and leant his strong upper body against the shelves, head turned to the right, staring with a melancholy smile at the notches in Keith’s shelf. “He’s been through a lot in his life, Lance. It’s not easy for him to trust,” his voice was a little hoarse, eyes falling back to Lance leisurely, his head cocked a little, “but he trusts you.”

Lance swallowed, turning to face him entirely with a humble, almost sheepish expression. He said nothing. 

“—and I trust him.” Shiro continued, a gentle laugh escaping him, sounding as though he didn’t think any of this was real, “you know, you seem like a good kid, Lance - just a little lost, I think.”

Lance gave an incredulous laugh, friendly and awkward, his mind urging him to break the tension that had built up between their bodies. Relenting and giving in to that desire, he finally let his shoulders fall into a sloping arrow, his head shaking and his eyes wide, “you have no fucking idea, man. These past couple of weeks? Buddha on a bicycle, _something’s_ had it out for me, I swear.”

Shiro’s laugh was rich and smooth, “oh, yeah?”

Lance looked at him seriously, eyebrows expressive, “dude, I don’t even know where to start. All I know is that Keith’s the only thing currently keeping me from diving off a canal bridge.”

“Oh please,” Shiro chuckled incredulously, “are you always this dramatic?”

Regardless of whether he was still a little peeved or not, Lance was never one to waste a perfectly good opportunity to be melodramatic; he rolled his eyes, “dramatic? That’s both heartbreaking of you to say and negotiable.”

“Yeah, okay, I’m sure it is.” Shiro threw him an amused smirk, completely disbelieving as he crossed his arms again, “no wonder you’re the only thing on Keith’s mind - you must be fun at bonfires.”

The sentence stopped making sense midway for Lance, and as embarrassing as it was, he hadn’t heard the rest of it. His eyes widened only a subtle fraction, a pleasant heat running through his body, “he talks about me sometimes?”

“ _Quiznak_ ,” Shiro scratched his neck, smiling widely, “sometimes? I don’t want to be the tattle-tale messenger, but it’s a little more than sometimes. ‘ _Goddess, Shiro, you should’ve seen what Lance said today, what a jerk!’, ‘you know, I think Allura should meet him, she’d whip him into shape—’, ‘—he’s actually really handsome when he doesn’t open his mouth—’, ‘he does this thing with is nose—’_ ” He paused, staring at Lance’s small gape and the face that gradually reddened in mortification. Shiro blinked in faux innocence, “I could honestly go on, I have six months worth of this—”

“I’m good, thank you,” Lance rushed, hand covering his face. 

“It’s actually kind of endearing,” he laughed, watching Lance sauté in his own modesty and embarrassment, “he hasn’t pined like this in years.”

Composing himself, Lance tried his best to remove the red from his face. He failed, tucking his palms into his cotton sweater, swallowing thickly and avoiding Shiro’s knowing smile at all costs. He breathed loudly through his nose, “he hasn’t?”

“No—well, he was never really the romantic, anyway.” Shiro’s smile faltered a little, mood seeming to dampen, “he—didn’t really have the time for that as a child.”

“Why not - were his parents strict or something?” Lance, finally able to school his expression, turned to him with a frown. Shiro bit his lip, keeping his features in line. Lance could feel that moment of hesitation that fed on the energy between them. The shop was silent, and as though sensing the mood that had fallen back to hell quicker than Lance would’ve liked, the flowers seemed to dull in color. Finally making a choice for his decisive answer, Shiro smiled sadly back at him with the eyes of a man who carried a burden he was far too young for. 

“Well, which ones?”

Lance’s neck craned forward, obnoxious confusion lacing his eyebrows and his narrowed eyes. He shook his head, crossing his arms, “what the fuck are you—”

_Does he mean—_

He stopped, mind registering the connotations behind the question, thoughts stilling to a complete halt before his features could do the same. The thin, straight press of the lips Shiro gave him in that moment made his eyes fall to the rosewood floorboards between the toes of his ratty canvas shoes. Lance’s heart fell a little, _oh._ It made sense. 

Keith was an orphan. 

Keith didn’t have one set of parents because Keith was a foster child. 

Keith was lonely and Keith had a hard time trusting. 

Lance felt his chest cave, and the memory of his mother and father embracing on the porch of their house came to mind; the swell of his sisters cheeks when she smiled and his brother’s soft head of hair, the smile she gave him when Lance pressed his unyielding fingers into her sides, and the hair he’d run his hand through when his little brother fell asleep across his lap. Keith had had none of that, no family dinners and no christmas mornings. No _abuela_ to sit him on her lap and no _abuelo_ to chastise him for chewing with his mouth open. 

Keith hadn’t gotten drunk in his ‘ _hometown_ ’ as a teen because he hadn’t been in one place long enough to make friends, and he hadn’t had a serious relationship for that very reason. 

“Oh,” was the only stupid sound that made it out Lance’s mouth, eyes still downturned. 

“Yeah,” he sensed Shiro nodding lightly from his peripheral, “but enough of that—he treats it like the past and I think we should too. He’ll hate you if you pity him. Either way, I’m thankful for everything.”

Lance’s voice came out in a gentle rasp, chin to chest. His eyes flicked up sharply, “thankful?”

“For you—I think,” Shiro smiled genuinely, although Lance could sense a certain sorrow in there somewhere, “that you aren’t a grudge holder.”

Lance shook his head, lost mentally and emotionally. Shiro had just dragged him through hell and back, stepping on his grossly sentimental being with iron boots, and now he spoke to him in the strangest tongue, “has anyone told you you’re really fucking confusing? Or does that come with the florist job description? Are you _all_ like this?” 

Shiro gave an involuntary snort, chuckling a little, “maybe—but I do mean it.”

“Mean what?”

“He told me you forgave him. It’s good you forgive, you know—”

“ _What’re_ you _saying_ —”

“You’ve got a kind heart, Lance—“

Lance snapped, his scowl a little hostile and completely lost and entirely fed up, “forgive _who_ , for _what_ , damn it, man!”

Shiro’s smile contorted into an confused glare as well, shaking his head, “ _Keith_ , for the lemon carnations? He felt so guilty after that, like you wouldn’t believe—he thought he’d—” he paused mid-sentence, staring at Lance’s extremely livid and entirely lost expression. Shiro’s open mouth slid shut slowly. 

The day Keith was drunk, ‘ _—these are on the house, just for you—_ ’, the timid hug—

“ _Carnations_?” Lance’s voice was a little hysterical, the word spat out, incredulous, “ _yellow_ carnations?”

Shiro’s frown deepened, voice firm and steady, “never mind.”

“Give me a flower chart.” Lance’s tense, hurt expression fell into one that was far less friendly, a distant pokerface that was all straight lines and iced eyes. His features were sharp, voice serrated at its frozen edges, as the dawning reality of his situation played out in front of him.

“I said forget it.”

“ _Give me a flower chart_ —” he walked forward, eyes narrowed and deadly, palm slamming down on the smooth wood of the register, the sound breaking across the small room. The affectionate coziness the flower shop once held, faltered, and for a moment, it seemed the warmth of the past winter fell into a much colder spring. Their eyes stared the other down with sharp determination, hard as stone. Lance's voice was hissed, thick and low, “and give it to me _now.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well - what a ride, i suppose. should i add angst to the tags or just surprise the newbies?
> 
> okay, i really wanted to update this weekend, because starting tuesday, i'll be disappearing for a week (fully unplugging + beach). hopefully, you guys will get an update as soon as i get back!
> 
> also: my writing is fucking contorted, so i confused some people last time hahaha by 'bike' i meant motorbike/scooter/vespa/etc. not bicycle! keith's an amazing pilot in canon, but i doubt even he can ride a bicycle wasted :')
> 
> FINALLY - not many people asked for it, but a few did so i didn't want to let them down; the writing playlist for this fic is both on my [ tumblr](http://venpast.tumblr.com/post/148596900713/the-florists-my-writing-playlist-for-of) and [ 8tracks](http://8tracks.com/ovid/the-florist-s)!
> 
> see ya


	8. sleepy tillandsias and fathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so i genuinely felt guilty for leaving you all hanging, so i spent the past _seven hours_ typing this out instead of packing. the cliffhanger was a mean one ahahah - however, that being said, this has not been proofread, and i’m not very happy with the writing here either. 
> 
> speaking of writing, i need you guys to do me a favor. recently, i feel like my writing has taken a turn from being ‘oh, that’s such a pretty image’ to ‘this is confusing and i don’t know what she’s trying to say’. i need some honest feedback - tell me where i confused you, what to take out, what to put in, and the like. i don’t want my writing to seem overdone/extra (which it tends to be the case most of the time). that being said, please tell me when it gets too boring/flowery/artificial/etc. - okay? don’t be shy! you’re helping me out here :))
> 
> moving on: i’m going to try wrapping up this darling thing soon (i don’t want it to draw out any longer ahah it started out as a cute one-shot lol), so there’s probably another two chapters and a teeth rotting epilogue. 
> 
> if there are any themes/jokes/characterizations that trigger you guys, please feel free to let me know ([tumblr](http://venpast.tumblr.com/ask)) - in that case, i’ll tag it or write it out entirely. this is supposed to be fun for all of us so i would hate making someone uncomfortable. 
> 
> okay, you can go now, pretzels! i hope you enjoy :)

Keith woke up with a migraine—he always did. It was a habit now, he supposed, the bottle laying by his bedside becoming a given. He just wasn’t sure when it had become such a normal occurrence. His eyes blinked awake, pupils once swollen, constricted immediately in response to the warm sunshine, his bed pressed against the broad window, leaving little room for escape. The white curtains were tucked into the space between the foot of his mattress and the glass, its length excessive and uncut. He hadn’t been bothered to adjust it when he first moved a year or two ago, lacking the finesse and creativity other people tended to have towards their rooms. It seemed useless to him, because temporary homes didn’t deserve any attention. He was, after all, going to leave his small rented studio eventually.

And the room reflected just that—that lack of care—with its queen floor bed, riddled in white sheets and an equally white duvet, a black framed full mirror hung on the opposite wall, room painted a generic grey. It was empty of personality, spartan in nature, a long white desk falling parallel to the bed, his aging laptop crooked on the surface. The studio was newly renovated, heaving with simplistic modernity, everything about it drawn out in straight lines and sharp corners, detached from a room’s traditional warmth. Despite that crescent-white briskness, his space was a mess of unwashed clothes strewn about the moquette flooring, one stained with the remnants of milk tea and tracked mud, its grey surface blotched and darkened.

Keith was hardly one that took care of anything, even his carpet.

The room smelt faintly of deodorant, unlike the scent of jasmine braided into his hair when he came home from work— _if_ he came home from work, it seemed, because Keith hadn’t been to the shop in a little over a week and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be back. Nothing about the idea was encouraging, not the sight of the flowers, or Shiro’s line of questioning, or the last bottle of gin hidden under the floorboards. He groaned, turning onto his side to try and escape the sunlight, head buried into the feather pillow on his right. His gut twisted in on itself, and Keith had a hard time not heaving up a lung. He swallowed down the feeling of nausea.

He was hungover.

The feeling sunk into his bones, his body slow and unresponsive; he didn’t remember what it was he’d drunken the night before, and part of him genuinely hadn’t cared to find out. It was all the same—the same burn and the same intoxicated stupidity that had made an amateur alcoholic of him. It was true, though, because Keith had not been big on drinking much at all before he’d met Lance.

 _Lance_.

The name fed on what remained of Keith’s sober sanity, and the sheer humiliation of that night resurfaced briefly. He gave a loud, choked groan, breathing into a pillow that smelt of the plants he tended to. He hadn’t touched a leaf in almost ten days, and he hated Lance for every moment he spent away from the little shop—he missed Red, and he missed Lance as well. Keith was almost sure whatever they had had between them, be it friendship or friendliness, was fucked - and it was entirely on Keith. It wasn’t _Lance’s_ fault Keith was an idiot who’d fallen into a rabbit hole he couldn’t quite fetch himself out of. _Lance_ was not the one who’d offered Keith whiskey, and Lance was most definitely not the one _to have practically gotten into his lap and planted one on him_.

 _Fucking hell,_ Keith grimaced with closed eyes, hating his own phrasing. It wasn’t only his phrasing, hardly—it was the entire situation that left him asking the boy in the mirror what he was doing with his life. With a final heaving breath, Keith forced himself upright, fingers twisting into the soft Egyptian cotton of his bedsheets, fabric warm beneath his cold tips. In all actuality, he would have never spent money on something expensive to ‘fancy up the place’ unless he was forced into it in one way or the other. The sheets had stayed a good year folded on the bottom shelf of his closet—after all, it wasn’t Keith who bought them; it had been Allura that bought them _for_ him.

She’d called them _a housewarming gift_.

The notion was both foreign and absolutely ludicrous to him, pointless and a little sentimental - but her motherly care was touching. When he’d first met her, Keith had every intention of hating her—for being perfect and beautiful and kind and _Shiro’s_. He wanted to hate her for everything she was because it happened to be everything he was not. The envy had faded along with his feelings for Shiro, and although Keith felt they would never entirely disappear, he’d learnt to control himself. Keith felt he’d done a good job, because the moment Shiro had - in his oblivious innocence - asked him his opinion on how to propose, Keith felt genuinely happy for them both. He was finally satisfied.

Then Lance showed up.

Lance with his wide smile, and cocky grin and stupid jokes—he’d taken that satisfaction and destroyed it. It fueled Keith’s anger more than anything, and he wasn’t sure what it was he was angry at. Maybe it was himself and his own questionable decision making, or maybe it was Lance who had developed a strange form of control over Keith’s smiles and his frowns. He’d taken that agency from him without consent, and Keith was entirely against it. His eyes trembled closed, fingers fisting into the duvet, bare feet curling against the moquette; his chest hurt. He blamed it on the unlabeled bottle by his ankle.

The room was coated in the pleasant spring coolness that called for a book and a cup of tea, the bright sun flitting over sharp edges, tracing a single vibrant streak of white gold across the room. It was the perfect season, the florist in him hummed, for a nice day in the backroom, tending to the blossoming cosmoses. The fresh smell of morning would tear through their makeshift greenhouse; Shiro would walk in with a plate of fruitcake and a smile, Allura behind him in her pretty overalls with a dainty color-coded list of orders, riddled in small doodles of the relevant flowers. She would sit herself on the ground next to Keith, smelling of the finest vanilla, pulling her silver hair up into a careless bun, breathing an airy ‘ _good morning_ ’ into his space. Shiro would drag the round based chair and straddle it, looking down at both of them from over its back, a gentle smile for an expression as he chewed on the english cake.

Keith sighed and shook his head clear.

The idea of losing that—all he had left, really— _because of Lance_ , who hadn’t done anything wrong to begin with, was pathetic. Desolately, he pushed himself off the bed, stumbling slightly as he moved across the room towards the bathroom. His hand came up to knead softly at his head, carding through the loose hair—the same hair Lance made fun of on countless occasions, comparing Keith to a character from those trashy eighties mecha-cartoons.

Temple throbbing, he hissed a curse under breath, scowling as he roughly pulled the hairband from his wrist and into his hair. _Fuck him, who even cares, anyway._ Keith did. Keith cared.

Fluffing the bun loosely with his nails, he let a small frown make its way onto his face. He had been fine with being a detached introvert who lazed around doing nothing but cursing fate and his bad poker skills. _You know, Keith,_ Shiro had once told him after a particularly embarrassing game of blackjack, shuffling the cards with a warm smile, t _hey say when your hand’s bad at cards, your luck’s bound for love instead_. Keith had scoffed and told him to keep the bullshit Egyptian proverbs to himself and draw.

Keith had lost every single game that night.

But it hadn’t mattered, because he knew better than to find reason in myth. His luck had him in situations that he wouldn’t wish on anyone—they had him begging for a happy dagger or a vial of poison. Shiro - despite his front - was hell-bent on his wishful thinking, and it was hard for Keith, because how was he to curse the gods with Shiro building shrines of hope in his mind instead. Keith pushed the thought to the far back of his mind, stepping into the bathroom. No amount of rose petals could cover up the metaphorical bullet-shells that lay as evidence of Keith’s fuck up. There was no silver lining to fucking with forces unseen—and love, as far as Keith was concerned, was one hell of a force.

That stopped him.

His face, damp in his palms as he bent over the faucet, froze in a paling stare. _Love?_ —his throbbing head thought incredulously— _when the fuck had it gotten that far - how did_ I let it _get that far?_ He felt something cave in his chest, a vine of purslane with leaves of thick emotion crowded his lungs, making it hard to breathe—slowly, he looked up from between trembling fingers, facing his own horrified expression in the mirror; _what the fuck_. His sunken features glared back at him in revelation, the dark violet that stamped his eyes serving to accentuate the hopelessness that slackened his shoulders and curled his lips. _No, please goddess, no._

He couldn’t have been reduced to sunken cheeks and trembling eyebrows because of love—he couldn’t have let his lips chap with the bite of alcohol for Eros. He— _Keith Kogane_ —who curled tongue and lip at his professors, who walked the walk life alone and was damn glad for it too—stared back at his own failure. He’d finally done it to himself, he’d finally failed. Keith had, he realized with misery, fallen in love.

He called Shiro to the sound of a running faucet.

* * *

 Keith kept his feelings to himself—no one else had to know anything about the weight of his tongue and the feeling in his stomach when he thought of Lance, not even Shiro. The conversation was a quick one, as he’d pressed the receiver with shaking hands to his ear, asking Shiro if it was alright to come in again. He hadn’t expected much other than warm hospitality, and predictably, Shiro hadn’t disappointed; he was near ecstatic in a manner that made Keith a little uncomfortable. He’d even wanted to pick him up, an offer Keith politely declined with, _‘dear goddess, Shiro, I wasn’t dead - chill the fuck out!’._ He received a laugh in response and a exaggerated sigh.

 _Yes_ , this is what Keith needed now. He needed to be with Shiro and Red and everything that made life a little better - even if only marginally. He needed to get his mind off Lance and everything Lance stood for, from the bottle to the smile, and the only way Keith could think of was going back to the shop. After all, if Lance had been going there to look for him for the past two weeks, he’d probably lost interest by then. Keith bit his own lip with the intention of hurting himself, _get your shit together, Kogane, you’re assuming he was looking to begin with._

Slippinga grey cotton turtleneck over his shoulders, he actively tried his hardest not to imagine a pretty girl draped across Lance. He closed his eyes, stepping into a pair of lycra sweats, with less agility than he normally possessed. A far part of his mind decided that _Nyma_ couldn’t have been too smart if she hadn’t picked up on his little slip up weeks ago; Keith pointedly ignored how blatantly obvious it was that normal people hadn’t the vaguest idea of flower language. He wanted to believe that she was as dumb as the boy she dated. The only issue with that, Keith knew, popping two painkillers on his way out the door, was that Lance was not an idiot. Lance was boisterous, and affectionate—but Lance, for all his moments of stupidity, was not inherently stupid.

He would get a look in his eye, lean his head against the wood of the backroom shelves, and talk for hours about universes and the cosmos and the furthest stars from Carina. They weren’t just pretty words, though, and Keith found himself paying attention to the numbers that Lance would slip in occasionally on accident, apologizing later for being a ‘little boring’; his ego didn’t allow him to be any more than just _a_ _little boring_ , it seemed. Keith smiled in spite of himself, straddling his aging vespa. If anything, Lance wanted to appear less intelligent than he was, because his stunted high-school mindset hadn’t allowed him to embrace intelligence just yet.

Keith slipped on his helmet - that Shiro had given back to him because Keith wouldn’t come near the store himself - and held the road. The shop wasn’t far, and it never took him long to make it there, rolling into the side street with practiced ease. Thankfully, his headache had faded into the marrow of his skull instead of clenching the nerves in his mind; Keith didn’t think he could handle the bombardment he’d received with a head that spun. He walked in on Shiro sitting on the desk,Allura softly chastising him about one thing or another. Keith put his helmet down on the ground, and when their eyes met, Shiro seemed to light up, completely ignoring his girlfriend who cocked her head back curiously.

She smiled brilliantly, turning entirely, “ah, Keith, darling—perfect!”

He raised a questioning eyebrow at Shiro who had suspiciously found an interest in the tips of his prosthetic; Keith’s mouth gaped a little before he turned back to the enthusiastic florist who gripped him by his elbows. _Goddess, she’s too fucking strong,_ “Uh—” he hesitated, looking down at her hesitantly, “yes?”

“You’re going to come with me, and we’re going to run a quick errand.” It was not a request.

The only expression Keith was able to muster was that of intimidated confusion, “I will?”

“Yes!” She released his arms, giving him a sharp pat on the shoulder. Allura was most definitely a unique creation, sculpted individually from a different clay than everybody else. It was difficult not to do as she asked, particularly when she stared you down with vibrant eyes and kind, deadly smile, pastel facial paints stretching prettily against her dark freckled skin. She pleasantly patted his cheek, and in any other situation, Keith would’ve found it extremely patronizing, but then and there his confusion only led to a gentle blush, “we’re going to Coran’s!”

“Um, Cora—?” Keith’s voice faltered in realization, eyes narrowing as a feeling of dread sunk into his gut, “the coffeeshop owner with the freaky mustache?”

“That isn’t nice at all!” Allura gaped, hitting his shoulder with the back of her hand - her very much _ringed_ hand, he noticed, two hands placed on either side of her hips, bracketing the waistband of a pale coral maxi skirt. She closed her eyes with pressed lips, flicking her french-braided hair over a single shoulder, the wide neckline of a fitting lace crop top coming into view. The fabric was intricate, falling in small stitches of flora, the edges coming out in peaks of decorative framework, a white bra drawn under the ivory. She was intimidatingly pretty, and gay as he was, Keith could see why Shiro was stupidly head over heels for her. The woman was intelligent and beautiful, even if she was a year or two older than his friend; lovely, with her pale lashes and her septum hoop and her books. “Coran is like a father to me - he helped me open shop, Keith!”

He lifted two palms in surrender, “ _alright_ , alright, I’m sorry!”

“Good!”

He sighed, shoulders slouching childishly. Respecting the coffeeshop owner had little to do with wanting to go—after all, that was the place he knew Lance and his friends frequented, and the last thing he needed was to deal with _him_. Accordingly, Keith took the most reasonable course of action for a man in his situation—he threw Shiro under the bus like the other had done him. “Why can’t your boyfriend do it?”

“ _Hey_!”

Allura glared pointedly over her shoulder at Shiro, “my _fiancé_ ,” she snapped, “is, apparently, ‘off the clock’.”

“But I actually _am_!”

“You’re not very convincing, dear.”

Keith shook his head, they were ridiculous. He snorted involuntarily, staring at them argue over something silly and irrelevant, jumping from one topic to the next in the span of a couple of minutes. It left Keith in the corner to find comfort in his succulent. He took Red off a high shelf, ignoring the background bickering in favor of stroking the edges of his small echeveria, before crossing his legs and falling practicably into a sitting position. He leant against the wall sighing, door to his left; he missed the little plant more than he would’ve liked to admit.

Red wasn’t that old, and when Allura had initially handed her to him, Keith was not very good at taking care of the little thing at all. The plant was sickly at first, and refused his tender care. He’d just about given up on the pale rose succulent, then suddenly her vibrant red had returned, and - silly as it may have sounded - he felt like she’d finally accepted him. It was a tender love that he supposed only someone who had plants would understand—and then, looking at the sad downturn and ill color of her edges, Keith wanted to believe that Red missed him as much as he’d missed her. He smiled softly, “it’s okay, girl—I’m back.”

“ _Keith_!” Allura’s voice was stern, walking towards him with determination. Keith felt himself swallow. “Shiro’s holding the castle while we go, because he’s stubborn,” She grabbed his arm just as he put Red to the side, fluidly pulling him to his feet before throwing the door open and practically flinging him into the street. There was something distinctly emasculating about being manhandled. Keith winced, feet peddling under him as he tried his best not to fall face first into the patterned brick under the soles of his tennis shoes. Before he could regain balance, Allura had thread their fingers together and tugged him down the street, yelling over her shoulder in that distinctly English accent, “let’s go— _also_ , _the laundry better be done by tonight, Shiro, or may Altea help you!_ ”

Keith grimaced, and let himself be pulled. _Fuck my life._

* * *

  _Coran!”_ Allura had abandoned her hold on Keith’s hand the moment they walked into the coffeeshop, favoring instead a wide smile and a quick pace to the counter. The place was nice, he admit to himself quietly, looking around with a critical eye, but it was no flower shop. The warmth that heaved off the walls of Allura’s little store was unparalleled anywhere else - but there was something distinctive about the place, its chairs a mess of fabrics and stains, the lights hung low; Keith tapped a glass mosaic light fixture that hung close, watching it swing idly as he passed by. He sighed - he could see Lance visiting a place like this on a normal basis.

More than he saw Lance visiting a flower shop, anyway.

It was the right kind of atmosphere, Keith supposed, for someone like him to bring his books and chill at a corner table with bitter coffee lining his tangerine lips. It bothered Keith a little, as irrational as it was—he just hoped none of the people Lance knew would walk in on the coffeehouse then. Thankfully, the independent café was empty early in the morning on a weekday, the lines of sepia photographs that broke otherwise empty canvas of white brick were left crooked but unseen. Keith turned his attention back to the back of Allura’s head, eyes following the plaited fishtail, his mind elsewhere.

He hadn’t quickened his pace, even when she’d reached the counter. Keith continued to leisurely stroll behind her, feeling out of place and awkward, not knowing where to put his hands; it was not a familiar feeling. He was never anxious in front of anyone, and he was never anxious anywhere—not ever. There was one thing Keith knew for certain, though, as he finally caught up to the sight, sound and counter of a boisterous ginger-headed man: Keith wanted to leave, and he wanted to do it _now_.

Every corner of the place, from art hung on the walls to the corners lined with short bookshelves, made him immensely uncomfortable. Maybe it was the idea that Lance saw this all the time, maybe it was the idea he was pulled here without his consent. _Goddess, Red, come take me home,_ he thought sarcastically, thinking of the backroom in Allura’s shop, _I’m not cut out for the beverage business_.

“Ah, Keith, my boy!” a distinct and obnoxiously loud voice tore through his reverie. Looking from Allura’s hair to two very close eyes, Keith prided himself on not jumping back entirely - instead, he gave Coran a small wince.

“Uh, hey.”

Coran was a strange man, not malicious, but definitely more vibrant than anyone Keith had ever met before, with a voice that seemed deep and pitched all at once. He smiled at Keith from under that thick mustache, a pair of fingers coming up to curl its edges, knowing eyebrows raised, “how have you been, my boy?”

Keith could almost _smell_ the amused smile Allura was giving him, but his mind was preoccupied wishing Coran would back away, straighten out the way he leant over the counter and move the face he kept an inch or two from Keith’s nose. Trying his best not to look too cross-eyed, Keith swallowed, “uh, yeah, fine, thanks.”

With a wide, friendly smile, Coran finally fell back—before promptly placing a heavy hand on Keith’s shoulder. _Oh for fuck’s sake, man_. Coran was most definitely someone who lacked the concept of personal space, and for someone like Keith who did little but thrive on the lack of human contact, it was taxing. He was not a social creature nor did he enjoy the concept of being surrounded by people, not physically or mentally - it was a nightmare in either scenario, one that saw Keith with a headache and a mood that was brooding and temperamental. Least to say, the fingers that squeezed his trapezius with a little too much familiarity went unappreciated. It made him want to leave the place all the more. He rolled his shoulder with a quiet, “um, _sir_.”

Coran either hadn’t heard him, or entirely ignored him, instead keeping his palm steady on Keith’s sagging shoulder. He turned to Allura again with a smile, “what can I do for you, princess?”

She cleared her throat, trying to bite down her gentle smile at both Keith and the nickname, “ah yes, I thought now was as good a time as ever to check up on the Ionatha Fuegos we gave you a couple of months ago—you asked me to, a few days ago, remember?”

“Oh, yes, yes!” His hold on Keith tightened, and Keith did everything in his capability not to _physically remove_ the stupidly strong hold. Coran may not have looked it, but he was stronger than people gave him credit for, it seemed. Blue eyes snapped back to Keith and Coran gave him a rather long look, one that Keith was too irritated to pay any heed to. “Allura, my dear, could you please make yourself comfortable,” he spoke, voice airy and pleasant, though his gaze was sharp, “Keith will come with me to check up on the little things - I put them in the employee room. Sick things, ah.”

Pleasantly surprised, Allura blinked, “oh—well, I suppose that’s alright.”

“Excellent!” He gave a loud, choppy chuckle, removing his hand in favor of sharply patting Keith’s back, “come on my boy, follow me!”

Keith did, and as he had anticipated, the employee room was no where near as pleasant as the backroom. His mind couldn’t help but compare everything he saw - because this was Lance’s world, and the flower shop was Keith’s. It wasn’t like Lance worked for Coran, but Keith knew enough from drawn out tales that he definitely hung out there often—and just like Keith had let him curl in the makeshift greenhouse, Hunk had let Lance use the employee room. He could see it, as he walked in, floor boards creaking beneath his feet, open kitchen shelves tucked into the walls on either side, lined with pouches of beans and broken mugs, over a hickory kitchenette. It was easy to picture—Keith could _see_ —Lance, imagine his lean posture, resting an elbow against the far window, tranquilly breathing out woven tobacco breath through his nose; he could _see_ him breathe plaited grey from between thin lips and grit teeth.

Keith scowled involuntarily.

He’d never seen Lance smoke, because he never did in the flower shop. Keith had smelt it on him occasionally, and when asked, Lance admit that it was not common for him, unless the opportunity presented itself or he was _feeling it_ , as he’d eloquently put it; if he was brooding, or even a little too relaxed, Lance would pull on a cigarette. Keith appreciated that he didn’t do it in the shop, because even though he was almost certain that plants weren’t harmed, he knew Allura would have his neck, given her green agenda. The sight of a smoking Lance faded from reality into his imagination when Coran blocked the view of the window with his back, hands moving the small pots on the sill.

Keith sighed, he needed to stop thinking about it—about Lance. He had to if he had any chance of getting over this unfortunate situation, “so, what’s wrong with them?”

Coran turned to him, in his palm one of the many glazed porcelain pots, round and small, the tillansia lazing open. Keith frowned, the brisk nature of the plant should not have looked like that, it should have been sharp and high, with a pretty red dying into an equally vibrant green. Though, there was no sign of paling roots or fading colors, which signaled a healthy plant. Keith looked up from the plant to Coran’s knowing expression. He cleared his throat, “do you water them enough?”

“More than enough.” Coran gave him a small smile, “Hunk is quite the friendly giant.”

Keith shook his head, confused, “I don’t get it then—are they getting enough sunlight?”

“Plenty.”

“Maybe I should get Allura—” Before Keith could turn around, Coran grabbed his wrist firmly with his free hand. It was not unfriendly, but it had Keith looking down to where their hands met and back up to challenging blue eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with them.”

Coran laughed, letting go of him when he was sure Keith would not leave, “you’re a smart boy, _think_ —ever heard of smothering?”

He didn’t understand how this had anything to do with the sickly plants behind Coran. He was silent for a breath or two, still tempted to go out and fetch Allura. He relented, looking to the side, “being overprotective, you mean?”

“Yes, precisely!” Coran smiled victoriously, thumbs smoothing over the single pot cradled in his palms, “I’m sure you understand the idea?”

“I’m sorry but I don’t know how it’s relevant.” Keith toed at the ground, eyes finding their way back up to Coran’s in a narrowed slant, curious, “what does this have to do with the plants?

Coran’s shoulder’s sagged a little, “ah, well, it’s both to do with the plants—and Allura, if I may.”

Keith cocked his head, arms crossing over his grey sweater; he stayed silent. If this was something that concerned Allura, he didn’t have the slightest idea why Coran wanted _him_ there instead. He watched the man’s expression change from one that seemed so confident and flamboyant, to worried and anxious—and Coran made no move to hide it, almost as though the worry that creased his brow was something meant for Keith to see.

“You see, Keith, I’m a selfish man,” he sighed, looking out of the window with a sort of melancholy. He hardly looked like a selfish man to Keith, “Allura is like a daughter to me, and I wish her only the best. But selfish men do what selfish men do best—they are protective over the things they cherish, and often, without noticing, they may smother those very people they sought to protect.”

“I don’t think Allura feels that way.” Keith spoke, it was not as awkward as he thought the conversation with be, it was natural. Keith’s respect for Coran seemed to grow with every passing moment, blooming wide and thick inside his chest. He was happy for Allura, to have a man like this as something of a father, because after losing his own, he knew finding people to stand by you was no easy task. Allura, Keith knew, was a little like him in that sense. She didn’t have anybody left in the world but Coran—and Shiro.

Then it clicked, “you want to ask me about Shiro.”

“I am a selfish man, Keith,” Coran repeated with a smile, “if he’s going to take away what is mine to care for, I need to make sure she is in the best hands and the warmest embrace, so to speak. Not that she can’t take care of herself, but reassurance is good.”

“ _Shiro_ —” Keith swallowed with pride, “—he’s the greatest man I’ve ever met, and he loves her, a lot. He’s going to treat her like a queen—” he paused, correcting himself with a confident press of the lips, “no, he already does.”

Coran laughed, breathing solidly through his sadness, “I suppose you’re right, my boy.”

“I know I am.”

“Very well. Keith?” Coran walked forward with a seasoned smile, setting the pot down into Keith’s open palms, repeating, “these plants have gotten _more_ than enough water—Hunk is something of a friendly giant, after all.” Coran pushed past Keith after giving him a brief pat on the back, their shoulders brushing. Keith couldn’t help but smile a little when he heard the door swing shut quietly behind him as he stroked the edges of the plant, inhaling the scent of coffee and cinnamon and pumpkin spices. 

He knew what was wrong with them now; they were overwatered—overprotected because someone out there cared enough about the small things. Keith smiled, it was worth it, that laze in the stem, he supposed. Maybe one day he’d have something to protect, too.

* * *

He walked back to the flower shop alone; Allura having stayed back with a soft smile and an _‘it appears there’s a little more work for me to do here’_. Keith couldn’t argue, and he didn’t want to—he’d walked out of the employee break room to the sight of Coran giving a small nod. Given the way Allura had thrown herself into his arms, Keith assumed he’d given her his blessing. It was a pretty sight, too sentimental for him though, and as soon as he saw Coran’s sad smile and the way he’d held Allura’s small palms, Keith excused himself. It was a talk he didn’t need to be present for. A part of him was glad Shiro found Allura, because Keith didn’t think there was anyone out there who deserved her, anyway.

He’d stacked the tillandsias back into the fer forgeé metal frame he’d once given to Pidge - Lance’s friend - months ago, grabbing them from the bottom, before hoisting them up against his chest and out into the streets. The day had moved well into the afternoon, the sun high and warm, with only the remnants of winter wind blowing. It was pleasant—the town itself was pleasant, and Keith for once had begun to feel at home somewhere. He’d only been there for a little under two years, but something about the tight port town lowered his guard and loosened his nerves, no matter how tense he tended to be. The walk back, it seemed, was one that he desperately needed - and needed to take alone.

The stems brushed against his cheek, and Keith - despite his morning having started so crookedly - decided that it was a good day.

A good day because he had done something other than wallow in his own emotions, staring at the bottom of a shot glass. He was not an alcoholic, but there was something therapeutic he supposed, about completely losing his inhibitions. It wasn’t that he drank to forget, because the biting liquid didn’t ease his thoughts nor did it change them—thoughts of Lance were thoughts of Lance. Thoughts of Lance’s smile were thoughts of Lance’s smile, sober or drunk, they were there. Keith had no say in what his mind wandered off to. Alcohol, however, did him the biggest favor he could’ve asked for.

It made him not _care_.

When he thought of Lance, his body warm and loose and pumped with whiskey, he didn’t _mind_ that he was thinking of him. Instead, he enjoyed it—enjoyed the idea of listening to Lance’s talk of stars and responding to his stupid banter, because in that drunken moment, nothing was important, and he allowed himself a breath of solace where thinking of Lance had no consequence. Sobriety, though, brought with it the reality of his situation: he’d messed things up, and thinking of Lance wouldn’t help him get past anything at all. Keith sighed, glancing down at his worn shoes. _Whatever_. Frowning, he came to a conclusion he supposed he should’ve come to days ago: he needed to start using his head, and he needed to stop letting something like this have such a hold over him. He was done.

Keith decided, then and there, that he was done with Lance.

Because letting Lance go meant that he could resume his carefree routine—he’d go to the shop, he’d go for runs and buy his own tea and spend his free time reading. He’d go home at the end of the day, and he’d sit in bed with his mind tranquil, nothing on it but the thought of seeing Red the next morning. It seemed like the perfect arrangement, and it had worked for him for the longest time. It would work again, Keith would make sure of it. With a final heaving breath, he pushed any thoughts of blue eyes out of his head. _Fuck him,_ Keith frowned, _fuck Lance_. He bit his lip and pushed into the store.

The door chimed.

Keith hefted the things down from his chest, threading his fingers through the metal handle before letting the body rest against his hip, looking up, “hey Shiro, I got the plants from Cora—”

Breath, much like everything else around him, faltered in that moment—because the wingspan of a familiar raglan shirt broke the green of the store with a washed blue, the rise of pointed shoulder blades coming to a peak under the fabric, sculpted and lean. He felt the small bit of hope that had once blossomed in his chest wilt, falling into a thick grey that clouded his mind when his eyes braided the short disarray of umber hair, curled at the nape against a gaunt neck. There was a stiff slope to the posture, ungodly still and unmoved by his arrival. Keith’s instincts sung; _run_.

Only he was done running.

He breathed it out in disbelief, eyebrows furrowed—“ _Lance_.”

For a moment, nothing happened, and in Keith’s idle shock, he set down the plants by the door. His eyes never left the back of Lance’s head. There was something unreal about the entirety of it—that notion of facing your demons and the like. It was something everybody told themselves in the comfort of their own minds, where no one judged them—where no one judged _him_ for the shackles he’d made for himself. No one ever assumed they would be caught unaware when the decisive moment was at hand, and Keith was one of those people. He’d imagined seeing Lance in the street, and apologizing or something equally pathetic—but it would be, at the start and in the end, his choice to do so.

But now, staring at the back of Lance’s immobile form, Keith didn’t know what to do.

“I think I’ll leave you two alone now.” Shiro, who stood by the counter watching the scene unfold, cleared his throat. Keith looked back at him, and suddenly felt another stone of self-loathing fall into his stomach at the mere sight of Shiro disappointed stare, eyebrows laced and frown tugging on the edges of his handsome face. Keith felt his own expression falter into something hurt; Shiro had never looked at him like that. When Keith had been booted, he was the one who pat him on the back with a smile and a promise of better days. When Keith lost his roommate and his job, he was the one who offered his home and his girlfriend’s flower shop. When Keith hadn’t had someone to set him right, Shiro was the one who pulled him out of his own turmoil and into the warmth of this little town. His chest hurt, and he allowed his gaze to fall from the judging slant of dark eyes. “It seems you both have a lot to talk about.”

Brushing past Keith, Shiro made no move to comfort him.

The only sound left in the dead grey silence of the store was the gentle click and chime of the door. Keith wondered how things could go so south so quickly. Lance hadn’t so much as breathed a movement; Keith cleared his throat, an apology ready on his tongue—for that night, for that whiskey bottle, and for that kiss. Lance would accept it, because Keith would tell him he was drunk. It was a misunderstanding. They should still be friends. There was something frightening about an unresponsive Lance. Keith felt the feeling root itself in the marrow of his bones.

“Listen, Lance, I don’t thin—”

“I want a flower.”

It was quiet and flat and made Keith stop, mouth open mid apology—his mind refused to register, head shaking, “ _what_?”

The tone heightened only just, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “ _I want a flower._ ”

Frowning, Keith shrugged and looked down at the floorboards. His eyes rose again, “Sure, man. Calm the fuck down—the cosmoses probably just bloomed, and they generally look pretty goo—“

“I don’t think I asked for your suggestions.” Slowly, he watched Lance’s neck turn to him, eyes sharp and electric in their corners as they stared him down. There was a flatness to his expression. “I really do think I’m done taking your recommendations.”

Scoffing, Keith swallowed his hurt. He supposed it wasn’t the first time he’d had to deal with homophobic ignoramuses, and being a foster child only served to heighten the chances of being exposed to them. Keith just never anticipated something so cold and harsh from _Lance_ , of all people, over a stupid fucking _kiss_. Even though it had plagued Keith for a dozen days, it shouldn’t have meant anything to Lance, who felt nothing in return. With a stuttered breath, he glared back, “ _whatever_ , what do you want?”

Lance’s lips quirked downward, his profile unforgiving, “the flower’s in the backroom.”

“Oh, playing florist are we?” Keith scowled, “that’s rich.”

Lance’s shoulders shrugged, his neck turning away. “I think I play florist better than you, and you _are_ one, _dropout_ ,” the nickname’s affectionate connotations were lost in the nonchalance of cruelty. It was unreal how casual Lance had begun to sound, but still so malicious, “so, are you going to do your job or what?”

“Maybe if you ask fucking _politely_ , I’ll consider.” Keith spat.

Lance laughed; there was nothing sweet sounding about the ingenuine pitch—but then Lance turned to him, small of his back rested against the counter with a gentle smile, arms crossed. He cocked his head, and Keith - despite everything - felt his anger falter at that playful, tender quirk of the lips, “ _please_ , then, pretty-boy?”

Keith’s eyes fluttered as he rolled them, fighting down an angry, frustrated blush; he hated how much a simple expression could do him in with such ease. Giving a small nod, he mumbled a brief ‘ _follow me_ ’, and Lance did, pushing himself off the desk with swaying deftness; his smile was gone at the turn of Keith’s back. The backroom was dimly lit, the sun long past noon, falling into a deep evening bronze, licking light in interrupted rectangles across the small space, framed only by the glass and metal of the wall window. The room smelt faintly of newly bloomed flowers, small and young, kept in the corners and along the walls until they were dyed enough to sell.

Keith wove with practiced skill through the shelves and towards the new arrivals, stopping only a foot in front of the cheap pots Allura had placed them in temporarily, in the corner between the window and wall. His eyes softened at the sight, tracing the tall, slender stems of the calla lilies, to the silky plaited swell of thepink camellias. There was something beautiful about spring—something surreal about that pretty color that came with changing winds. It was something Keith would never understand, and a part of him wanted to keep it that way. Shiro had once raised a playful eyebrow at him, admitting that he never thought Keith would like the job as much as he did.

But he did—so much and so stupidly. It was, of course, embarrassing at first, and he hadn’t wanted to admit it. He’d take flower books off Allura’s shelf without telling her, and read them in the nooks and crannies of the store where he was sure Shiro wouldn’t find him. He’d only found out later that both of them knew all a long. The teasing left him sulking, but generally wore off when they grew bored. He breathed, unaware of the kind smile he wore as he thumbed at the thick petals of a magnolia. He really wanted to share that feeling—this beauty—with Lance.

“Here they ar—” he turned gently, only to draw in a sharp inhale at their proximity. Lance was close— _so very close_ , smelling of that tangy cologne and the freshness of the weather. Every angle of his body, every break in the contour of his face, and every dot of raging ocean in his eyes, fell open in front of Keith. He swallowed, watching the way those very oceans waterfalled from brown lashes - short and sharp and lowered - to his own lips. Keith wanted to die, but with every step back he took, Lance fell forward, pushing his narrow sculpted chest into Keith’s own.

Keith’s head thunked against the thick glass.

He couldn’t breathe, but it seemed like he didn’t have to, because Lance breathed for him, leaving pants on the damp swell of Keith’s lips, his forearm against the window. Keith let his guard fall into the dust, and he let his eyes fall, too, to the sweet neutral curve of Lance’s open mouth. A pang resonated in his chest— _Lance—he’s going to kiss me._ Keith felt his eyes close tightly when Lance’s knuckles found the curve of his jaw, tender and slow. His fingers were soft, gentle in the way they traced past Keith’s ear to run through the wisps of hair at the sides—before cupping his head and leaning in. His breath was warm and sweet and so _fucking_ close, Keith felt his heart tear at itself when their mouths brushed.

 _Maybe I was wrong_.

Maybe he _was_ wrong—these were not the actions of a homophobe. Maybe he was wrong about Lance’s feelings—about his own. There was a weak sun-flare of hope that brushed the edges of his mind, and he let himself lean into the thought. Lance’s lips traced past his own, instead trailing along the sharp rise of Keith’s cheekbone, before falling directly onto his ear. Keith felt the hair on his arms rise at the feeling, as Lance intentionally blew into his ear.

“I was right,” it was muttered, quiet and cold as ice. Keith’s eyes broke open, his frame ridged, “it suits you pretty well.”

Keith’s body felt loose when Lance fell back from him, lips tight, eyes lidded with an unreal sort of hostility. His hand fell away from Keith’s head, as he took a couple of steps backwards, before turning on his heel entirely and walking out the backroom door. There was a weight, small and faint, tucked behind the shell of Keith’s ear, once hidden by the pressure of Lance’s warm palm.

His eyes widened, trembling palm reaching up to grip unforgivingly onto the soft head of the flower, pulling it out, chest sunken and expectant. He looked down at his hand, watching the bruised yellow petals of a carnation fall to the ground between the creases of his fingers.

Rejection suited him well.

_You’re so cruel, Lance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also feel free to point out typos, seeing as i didn't have time to read this over :')
> 
> okay, now i'm going on vacation for real lol see ya guys next tuesday 
> 
> ([my tumblr](http://venpast.tumblr.com/ask))


	9. canal bridges and cigarettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at this 10k+ monster right here wow - fuck chapter length consistency, am i right?
> 
> REGARDLESS: i genuinely want to give a heartfelt thank you to everyone who left feedback on the last chapter, thank you so much, you're all amazing jam-jars! so, i made a little checklist of things that i tried to improve on this chapter - tell me whether i failed or not haha
> 
> enjoy, guys! i hope it was worth the wait :))

He found Keith sitting on one of the many canal bridges around town, legs dangling through the iron, head rested against the bars. The evening had fallen, and Shiro was a little confused and a little disappointed. He’d waited for Lance and Keith to sort themselves out, opting instead to sit against the flower shop’s wall waiting for Allura. Instead, all he’d seen was a stormy Lance viciously throw the door open and leave only a couple minutes after, followed by the suspicious slamming of the backroom glass—least to say, when he’d gone in to check on Keith, his friend was long gone. It hadn’t taken very long to find him, though. Reckless as he was, Keith - at least in Shiro’s opinion - was predictable. After all, there were only a handful of places that felt comfortable.

Sighing, he made his way to the boy tucked in between the metal of the bridge, looking more sulking and angry than he’d seen him in a long time, expression tight and eyes brooding. Keith fit into the background almost as though he belonged there, faded into the dark monochrome evening that sung in shades of grey and black and cool wind, the lit and aging lampposts mocking the pale light of the moon. Shiro stopped a foot from him, “Room for one more?”

Keith scoffed, eyes still trained on the dark water of the canal. He made no move to look upward, his head shaking in something akin to incredulity. He tucked his chin into the turtle neck, covering his mouth before looking away. To any outsider, the loose but annoyed slant of Keith’s angled shoulder blades would have been nothing but discouraging, and the waves of exasperated malcontent that heaved off him only served to repel. Shiro, knowing better, took in a soft breath and sat himself down easily, knee high, leaning the elbow of his prosthetic onto it. Keith, for all his temperament, was just as needy as anyone else. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“What gave it away,” Keith’s voice was monotonous, but packed with a bitterness that wasn’t unusual, “the fact I intentionally left the shop to be alone or the lack of response?”

“Being scornful isn’t going to help solve anything, I hope you know that.”

Keith’s lip curled. “Fuck that.”

Shiro sighed, watching Keith’s profile carefully, how it was adamant on angling it self downward and away. He didn’t know what had gone down between the both of them, save what he’d heard from Keith initially about the carnations and the girl Lance was attempting to impress. Shiro had warned Keith, insisting he apologize and make sure there were no consequences hanging between him and Lance, because karma wasn’t the kindest of forces. Keith had brushed him off with a rolling palm, telling him it was fine, that the flowers had gone over the girl’s head, and that the next time Lance came in, he’d apologize for it. When Lance had continued to come back, though, Shiro guessed Keith must have stayed true to his word. Looking at him now, though, desolate and bitter, Shiro’s fatherly instincts told him he’d made a grave mistake by assuming anything at all.

“Want to at least tell me what happened?”

“Not really.” It was a first.

“You can’t keep everything bottled up inside you like this,” Shiro’s voice was soft but chiding. There was no doubt that he was disappointed in Keith for not acting like an adult and for not doing the right thing. He’d thought better of him, but he supposed being in a situation like that, emotions tended to outgrow the symbiotic relationship they had with reason. It wasn’t hard to see that Keith had been enjoying the pleasant afternoons he shared with Lance, and Shiro was glad for it too; the kid had finally started climbing out of that secluded hole he’d dug himself. In the process, though, Keith had favored his own peace of mind over Lance’s, and it wasn’t a conclusion Shiro had to think about to reach. It had been written all over Lance’s betrayed expression, all widened eyes and hurt eyebrows. “You made a mistake and now you have to deal with it - as you should’ve before - like a grown up.”

“Thanks, Shiro.” Keith scoffed, resting his forehead onto the bars, against the moss green of woven vines. “You’re so fucking helpful.”

“I’m trying to be.”

“Yeah, well you can stop now,” his grip tightened on the iron, knuckles bruised and bleeding. Shiro had a feeling there was splintered wood somewhere in the backroom that Allura would undoubtably chastise them both for. “Because honestly? The last thing I want right now is a lecture.”

Shiro pursed his lips, a little annoyed. He tore his eyes away from Keith’s, following the other’s gaze to the still water below them. “You deserve one.”

Keith didn’t respond.

The silence only served to fuel Shiro’s rare irritation. “You should’ve told him. It was the decent thing to do.”

“Well, you saved me _all_ the trouble, didn’t you?” Keith’s tone, once flat, peaked slightly in anger, his head snapping to the side to sneer at Shiro. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Shiro took it in stride, looking at Keith from the corner of his eyes, entirely unimpressed. “Grow up, Keith, and learn to take responsibility for your actions.”

With a thick, stuttering breath, Keith allowed the look to humble him, the aggressive rise of his shoulders sloping again as he glanced away.He let his head fall onto Shiro’s shoulder, “Sorry.” Shiro wanted to tell him that he was apologizing to the wrong person, but he figured it served little at this point. “None of this matters now anyway.”

“Apologizing for hurting someone’s feelings always matters.” Shiro rested his head onto Keith’s, a platonic and brotherly warmth folding into the space between them, “No matter how angry Lance is now - deservedly so - he’ll appreciate it.”

He felt Keith shake his head softly, black hair brushing against Shiro’s cheek. “He won’t.”

“You don’t know that, these things take time.” Shiro murmured, voice gentle as though he was afraid to startle a wild animal. “You need to give him the chance to cool off.”

Keith sat upright, lifting his head from Shiro’s shoulder, to pull his legs out from between the bars, tucking them under his form. Shiro watched him crane his neck towards a dark, inked sky, eyes sliding closed. “Fuck him, Shiro. Fuck this.”

“It isn’t his fault, he didn’t do—”

“It isn’t all about _him_ , you know—there’s _me_ and how _I_ feel—how _he_ made me feel!” Keith hissed, his eyes snapping open, expression hurt and angry and bitter all at once. He kept his eyes trained on the starless sky, breaths coming out in short pants that did little but make his narrow chest rise and fall, his chest looking tight and his air, scarce. “He’s made mistakes, too—he’s not a fucking _angel_ , goddess! Stop defending him like he is one!”

Shiro frowned, surprised, his expression taken back by the outburst; he said nothing, watching the floodgates of wrath shatter open into a once steady flowing steam.

“ _He’s_ the one who fucking _came to me_ , _he’s_ the one that was overly affectionate—and touched _my_ thigh, and didn’t respect _my_ boundaries!” Keith let out a choked noise, hissed and livid, thick eyebrows trembling in vulnerability, eyes looking like they cursed the hidden stars. “I was happy alone, Shiro, but _he’s_ the asshole who _tucked himself into my side_ , and drank _my fucking tea from my fucking mug_ , and bought _me_ shit and complimented my face like it was the most logical thing for him to do _when he had a girlfriend_ —why is he exempt from all of it, huh? He strung me along like some stupid marionette and it isn’t fucking fair that I’m the only one shouldering the blame for all his actions! _Fuck_ him, Shiro—” he snarled, getting up from his seat in one fluid rise, hands gripping at the railing of the old bridge, back arched, “—fuck _him_ and his _stars_ and his _fucking_ _carnations_!

“Lance can go to hell, because you know what? He deserved those flowers, for goddess’ sake, because he screws people over, doesn’t he? acting like a pretty little victim when the only people that are actually fucked by any of this is _me_ and that little trophy-girlfriend of his!” Keith was in hysterics, his temper coiling to a passionate peak, ire reaching a boil as he turned to Shiro and pointed to no where in particular, “ _She’s_ the one who got the ‘ _fuck you_ ’ flowers, and guess what—” his voice slowed to a quieter hiss as he reached back, pulling out the stem tucked into the waistband of his pants; he pitched the carnation to the ground by Shiro’s thigh before bringing the soft yellow swell to a flat under the heel of his shoe, “— _so did I._ ”

Shiro did little but look calmly from Keith’s ungodly wrath, one that left his trembling form flushed and wide-eyed and disheveled, to the flower - or what remained of it - that was pressed cruelly in between the fissures of brick ground, stained darker with the dull grey of dust. “You kept it.”

“What?” Keith growled in confusion, short of breath, his voice hoarse.

“You kept the carnation,” Shiro repeated gently, schooling his expression to calculative apathy. He let his risen leg fall, crossing both as he looked up at the other through sharp eyes, “You kept it even though I’m assuming he rejected you using it; why?”

“What do you mean ‘ _why_ ’?” Keith smiled incredulously, anger risen to a frenzied crest, “Because he made my _blood_ _boil_!”

“I think he broke your heart, is what he did.”

Shiro watched a sinking look of silent shock take hold of Keith’s expression, leaving his emotions out in the open, raw and innocent, mouth left open in a small questioning gape. Shiro almost felt bad for him, watching how he immediately craned his neck, face tilted towards the sky, before letting out a shrill, miserable wail into the hands the covered his face, turning to face away from Shiro’s seasoned stare. It hadn’t taken a genius to tell him that Keith’s anger was misdirected, and although the words blamed Lance, there was a certain bitterness beneath them that gave depth to another argument entirely. Keith let his head tilt back down, his voice muffled by the palms still in place, “No one broke my heart - least of all Lance.”

“You really like him, don’t you?”

Keith let his hands fall in favor of throwing a glare over his shoulder, Shiro’s way, “I did, but now? I’d sooner break his jaw than kiss him.”

“You enjoy acting like you’re this hurricane, impressive and headstrong and unbeatable—” Shiro smiled tenderly at him, before looking back out at the canal, “—but that’s not true, is it? You know, if there’s one thing I know for sure is that it’s okay to hurt, Keith. It’s okay to give yourself time and it’s alright to be sad. No one’s asking you to rush it.”

“Yeah, _sure_ , Shiro,” it was then that Keith’s posture had failed him and his expression fell apart with a gentle scoff as he turned back, showcasing the shattered, glassy eyes and the frown he’d been trying to hide all evening. He looked betrayed. “But why does this sort of shit only happen to _me_? So I was selfish, whatever, I didn’t want to tell him—I convinced myself he knew—I was drunk and I messed up. The universe hasn’t cut me slack from the moment I was able to speak, _fuck_.”

Shiro threw him an empathetic smile, “Because that’s not how the universe operates.”

Keith wanted to bite back a comment - to tell him that karma was only a bitch to _him_ , that everything had it out for _him_ \- but as he looked down at the melancholy man with a scar across his face and a prosthetic for an arm, Keith couldn’t do it. There was nothing in this world, he supposed, quite like what Shiro had gone through, and no matter how selfish and hurt and _tired_ Keith was in that moment, it was still not enough to belittle Shiro’s struggles. Instead, he stayed silent, and sat himself up onto the railing, legs weaving into the bars, ankles brushing vine and rust alike, back facing the water.

The night had fallen thick and the hours late, but for the longest time, all Keith did was listen to Shiro’s steady confident breathing. It was reassuring - Shiro himself was - and comforting to have someone by him even if all his mind wanted was to be alone. He looked down at the carnation, dead and flattened against the ground - kind of like he had felt when he’d looked down at it for the first time. Maybe he had deserved it—maybe Lance was hurt—but Lance was _cruel_. He was brutal without any regard for what it felt like to be in Keith’s position, what it felt to have lost control over how you felt and how you acted, even if it was for a single breath. What had been the purpose—of the flower, of the brushed lips—nothing—they served _nothing_ save making the situation unbearably heartless. The worst part though, he found himself admitting, was the part where his lungs felt choked in his very much open chest.

It was a juxtaposed state that left him hurting and confused—because whether or not he admit it to Shiro or not, Keith had admit it to himself before: he loved Lance. As angry and tired and _heart-broken_ as he was, all he wanted to do was share that cup of tea with him again—even if it meant nothing. He didn’t want Lance angry at him, but Keith wasn’t sure he wanted to forgive him for tonight either.

“I think—” he swallowed, listening to Shiro hum questioningly, keeping his eyes on the flower, “—I don’t think I’m going to apologize, Shiro.”

He heard Shiro sigh, “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought you weren’t going to apologize?” Shiro teased, but his smile was worried.

Keith forced a smile of his own and toed at his shoulder playfully. “Shut up.”

 _I’ll get over you_ , _Lance. I’ve done this before,_ he thought, looking up to the sky again, Shiro’s name bright in mind, _and I’ll do it again_.

A part of him felt it wouldn’t be that easy this time around—not that it ever had been.

* * *

 

They were _done_. Pidge was done with Lance and Lance’s fickle nature and Lance’s attitude - or lack thereof, seeing as he ignored their phone calls - and Lance’s lack of proper social etiquette. They stared down at their phone, irritation set in their gaze and their bloodstream, glasses pushed up onto their head. Pidge rested both elbows on the circular serving table, teeth grit. “He fucking hung up on me—” they cried, incredulousness lining their pitched tone, “— _again_!”

It was the third time Pidge had tried calling him that day, and normally, that number was much lower— _normally_ , Pidge never called _at all_. Lance was always one step ahead of them, calling to argue over Pluto’s legitimacy as a planet— _‘it’s a birthright, Pidge-pie!’_ — and alien conspiracy theories he had most likely read off some questionable website; both went ignored more often than not. Pidge let him talk, though, even when it was well into the night, because there was something almost amusing about how desperate and bored Lance was most of the time. That week, however, had been different. Pidge’s log, usually overflowing with missed calls from one ‘ _asshole ass-tronaut_ ’ was empty save one or two phone calls from Hunk. 

It hadn’t helped that when Pidge caved and called, Lance didn’t answer—then, he begun outright killing the line. 

“This is fucking ridiculous, Hunk!” They snapped, throwing the small device onto the wooden countertop, the force sending the cellphone into small circles and off the edge of the table. Hunk, being as apt at reacting quickly to spilt drinks, caught it easily and placed it back onto the wood gently; Pidge barely noticed, “It’s been over a week and he still hasn’t shown up—I swear, when I see him, I _will_ make him cry! And not like that one time I did by accident when he was drunk!”

Hunk laughed loudly, tucking away the blenders into the lower cabinets. It was late in the afternoon, the darkening sky saturated the small coffeeshop, light beating against the sun-bleached photographs on the wall before bouncing off the guerrilla light fixtures. It had been a calm day all in all, slow and uneventful, only few students coming in. Finals were near, and Hunk supposed some people preferred libraries over coffeeshops—accordingly, Coran had asked him nicely to close up shop before his shift ended, chill and simple. That was, until Pidge had barged in, temper tantrum on the tip of their tongue and bottom of their heels. “That night was savage, though, _god_. I’ve never seen Lance lose it like that.”

Pidge crossed their arms, irked and serious, “I didn’t know he was an emotional drunk, gods! I would have seriously shaved my own head before making that one dumb comment about that Colombian singer lady— _especially_ if I knew the consequences had Lance’s snot in the equation.” 

“He practically worships her, dude.” Hunk spoke, amused smile playing at his lips, dusting his hands off. “You messed up.”

“Yeah, thanks for the info, you’re about a year and many, _many_ snot-filled nightmares too late,” Pidge rolled their eyes. They heaved in a thick breath, lips curling contemplatively. “So, real talk: what’re we going to do about the prick. He hasn’t shown up to class in a week and a half, and he won’t _fucking answer my calls._ ”

Hunk smiled pleasantly, “If it makes you feel better, he hasn’t been answering mine, either.”

Pidge’s shoulders sagged, eyes narrowed and wholly unimpressed, their voice flat, “Yeah, thanks for that, buddy.”

“No problem.”

Pidge sighed, allowing their eyes to fall closed. Colorfully bandaged fingers pinched the bridge of their nose, “Seriously, though, Hunk. It’s weird, even for him. I mean, he usually comes along with us even when he’s sulking—hell, I think he bitches more often than he doesn’t. Kid’s _always_ heartbroken over someone.”

Hunk took off his apron and folded it carefully, setting it onto the counter before leaning forward across the wood, sighing as well, “I know what you mean. It actually feels a little quiet without him.”

“A _little_?” Pidge sputtered obnoxiously, in genuine disbelief, “I’m living in a fucking _Charlie Chaplin movie_ without him! A black and white one, Hunk—” they paused seriously, expression curled and almost comedic, “— _black and white._ ”

Hunk’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, “Someone’s attached.”

“Fuck yeah I am!” Pidge scoffed, taking their glasses off their head in favor of biting the handle, eyes still wide, “Gods, it’s weird not to have him bug me all the time.”

“I take it you’re worried, then?” Hunk shrugged, a knowing glint in his eye when he raised an eyebrow at them. 

Predictably, Pidge snorted, “No—no, I’m not calling it that.” 

“Alright, Pid.” Hunk moved out from behind the counter, grabbing his backpack in the process, “Whatever you say.”

“Regardless,” Pidge sighed, wholly frustrated by the situation, eyebrows knit expressively. They slid off the chair and onto their feet with practiced agility, grabbing their phone in the process. “We need to do something; he _will_ fail the semester at this rate. I’ve always known he was irresponsible, but this is ridiculous.”

Hunk readjusted the backpack on his shoulders, and nodded to the door with a worried lip, “I get it, man—he’s pretty hotheaded and it normally isn’t for the best.” Pidge was silent and unmoving for a long time, their eyes narrowed and calculative, scanning the breadth of space between Hunk’s eyes. It had begun making him uncomfortable, his lip left bitten and his hum curiously anxious, “Um, Pidge? You okay, buddy?”

They didn’t respond immediately—but they did _eventually_ , and Hunk found himself swallowing at the tone.

“Let’s go.” They breathed, scowl deepening as they placed their glasses back onto the bridge of their nose, “We’re crashing this chucklefuck’s party, and may the gods help him when we do.”

* * *

 

The day was slow to start, and slow to finish for him. There was nothing eventful about the way Lance had sat at his kitchen isle - like he did every morning - to have a bowl of some unheard of cornflakes; there was nothing particularly different about the way he viciously threw a flower into the sink’s garbage disposal whenever he found one laying around; and there was nothing new about how empty and awful everything felt for him. He knew himself—and Lance knew he was prone to bouts of misery every now and then, like when he’d first left home to be on his own, or after he’d first been rejected. It was not considered unheard of, he supposed, for Lance McClain to fall prey to over-emotionality. But this was different. _Keith_ was different.

Or maybe it was Lance who’d perhaps convinced himself of that. Maybe there was nothing inherently special about Keith at all—why would there be, seeing as Lance felt that same thick swell of sadness when Nyma had left as well. At least then, he supposed, there was someone he could go to. The comparison in its entirety seemed useless and void in his mind, and Lance, much like almost everyday since, continued to stare idly at the wall from his bed, laying borderline catatonic on his side for hours. He hadn’t wanted to admit it at first, that the moment Shiro had mentioned the carnations was the same moment Lance felt something inside him, small and young and naive, fall apart entirely. 

Because for all his talk of kisses and women, Lance had never fallen in love—but he had lived and breathed on the hope that someday, he would. 

Pidge made fun of him most of the time; they told him that he was in love more often than he wasn’t - and, according to the slight smile that played on Hunk’s lips, when Lance wasn’t in love he was heartbroken or pining. Neither was true, not that he cared enough to correct them. He knew himself well, and that seemed like enough. Besides, Lance saw nothing wrong with being fickle—the problem was elsewhere. It was in the fact that both times his heart had set itself on someone, it was _wrong_. Not wrong for almost loving them - because who can be held accountable for that - but wrong for choosing them. He fell onto his back, _I really need to shower_. With that thought in mind, Lance sighed, eyes sliding closed before he rolled out of bed. 

Lance’s movements were slow as he slid the shirt off his shoulders fluidly, letting it find its own way in the mess of clothes strewn about on his floor. The basketball shorts followed close behind, dropped to the ground easily as he walked across the room towards the bathroom. The evening had just begun folding in, and the drawn curtains did little to let in whatever light remained in the sky, instead, they hailed an almost opaque glow through blue-grey creases. The only light, breaking against the rise and fall of Lance’s facial plains, came from the deep yellow of the studio’s living room, from an indirect, tall lamp Lance had brought once he moved in. 

His expression was caught in apathy for a week, and even in the comfort of solitude, it hadn’t changed.

He reached forward, pushing the bathroom door open before walking his barefoot onto the ground inside, the coolness of the tile framing his toes. Lance was greeted by the sight of his own reflection, disheveled even without clothes sagging across his lean chest, hair longer than it should have been, darkening stubble dragging across from his curling sideburns, left without grooming. His eyes stared flatly back at himself, and promptly, without a single care in the world, Lance turned away and twisted the faucet of the old clawfoot.

The tub was an aging one, much like everything else in the small apartment, dated and stained and all he could really afford. Its lip curled, belly white and wide for such a narrow space, eating up almost the entirety of the spartan restroom. Without a second thought, Lance dropped to his knees by it, elbows lining the length of its edge, head cradled in his arms. He closed his eyes to the sound of running water, allowing his thoughts to leave home as well, and wander where he normally wouldn’t let them. 

Slowly, eyes opening to trace the tiles, Lance decided he really hated the color yellow. He really hated the floral print that lined the backsplash of the sink; it was gaudy and tasteless and so unbearably _yellow_ against the white. It was almost like Keith was mocking him even in the sanctity of his shitty little apartment. Even when Lance swore on every star that he wouldn’t think of him - he wouldn’t give Keith that sort of satisfaction - he couldn’t help it. There was little in his home that _didn’t_ remind him of Keith, even though the man had never even set a foot in his street, much less crossed his threshold. The book by his bedside table was Keith’s, and the tea in his cabinet was one Keith had recommended, and the ugly flowers painted against the white tile of his bathroom reminded him of an _ugly_ little flower shop down sevenths. The yellow irises reminded him of those carnations that cost him more than he was willing to admit.

At first, fueled with rage and bitterness, Lance forgave Nyma in favor of blaming Keith; he blamed Keith for everything that had gone wrong, from the rejection itself to his groundless emotions that the other had so obviously messed with. He convinced himself that Nyma had left him - even though they were never really together - because by some _unfathomable twist of fat_ e she _somehow_ understood flowers. It was unrealistic, when it all came down to it. Lance remembered that platonic palm on his arm, and he remembered one vital detail that exempted Keith from half of the blame near immediately: Nyma had never really _looked_ down at the flowers. 

She had walked up to him with that patronizing smile, and Lance would be lying if he said he hadn’t immediately sensed that something was off - he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t seen something like that coming. He was confused at first, maybe—but when logic came back from the war, it wasn’t hard to see that the lust she had for him was unlike the adoration he had for her. They had different goals going in, and it seemed, as always, Lance got the short end of the stick. His fingers traced the water, falling from the running liquid to the shallow surface of the tub itself.It didn’t matter in either case, because those carnations boiled down to one of two things: either Keith had intentionally wanted to fuck Lance over, or the message was directed at Lance _himself_.

In either scenario, Keith didn’t like him very much—and Lance would be damned if he didn’t return _that_ sentiment.

A pounding on his door shattered the thought. He considered letting whoever it was on the other side find out for themselves just how much he wanted to be left alone, but - begrudgingly - when the knocking rattled the door viciously, Lance muttered a small ‘ _coming_ ’, before heaving himself up. He hoped whoever it was had bleeding knuckles and bruised veins. The knocks came harder, shorter with each interval.

“Fucking hell,” Lance hissed under breath, growling as he moved towards the door with rolling shoulders, crossing the small living area with long, dedicated struts. Palm on the knob, he threw the door open, “What part of _coming_ do you fail to fucking understa—”

He stopped. _Oh, fuck me._

Pidge smiled back, a thin stretch of the lips that was in every way as mocking as it was sardonic, their arms folded, and their hip jutted. “Well, I understand no more than you, apparently. Had you answered any one of my fucking calls, you would have known we were—” they scoffed, using an index finger on either hand for air quotations, “ _coming_.” 

Lance’s expression, once a series of confused curls and shocked gaping, straightened out into something of offended disbelief. One hand was left to rest heavily on the frame, while the other clutched the lip of the door. “Oh, fuck this,” he breathed.

“No,” Pidge’s tight smile widened. They scrunched their nose up in what would’ve been a playful gesture had it not been for the inherent hostility of their tone.“Fuck _you_.”

“I don’t feel like dealing with this right now.” His features slowed to an unimpressed deadpan. With one look at a sheepish Hunk in the background, Lance’s patience ran thin, and accordingly he tried slamming the door shut. It was hardly that he hadn’t loved his friends—hell, Hunk alone was more important to Lance than his entire family—but at that point he could have cared less. His mood was bitter and he figured having a walking trigger step into his house was a dumb idea—it seemed like something akin to giving an arsonist a box of matches: easily avoided and entirely idiotic. Pidge’s small foot pressed itself into the space before lock met lock, strong calves set and still. 

Lance’s force was left void. _Jesus, what the fuck?_ his mind hissed incredulously, _how does something so fucking small have thighs of steel?_ Pidge’s foot wasn’t caught between the door and the threshold, no—they had completely stopped it halfway. He assumed the running Pidge did on all those fateful mornings had done _some_ good.

“Nope,” Pidge cocked their head, “we’re not doing _that_.”

“What the fuck?” Lance voiced his incredulity, looking down at Pidge’s foot. “How the hell are you even— _what_?”

“Easy,” they shrugged, “I’m doing it in the same way I’m going to do this.”

Before he could react to ask what they meant, Lance was met with a small palm against his chest, pressing him with an unreal force backward. His body - loose and unsuspecting - stuttered, feet forced back through his doorway as he watched Pidge step in nonchalantly with their hands tucked in the back pockets of their jeans, looking around curiously, leaving Hunk to smile apologetically at Lance’s slowly angering expression. Hunk held out one vanilla latte, in hopes of killing the hostility of the expression. He failed. Lance glared down at his hand, gaze flicking sharply up to Hunk’s eyes. He winced, “No?”

“ _No_.”

“Oh, come _come_ , jackass,” Pidge rolled their eyes, pushing their glasses up the bridge of their nose with a slow index finger. They crossed their arms leisurely, head cocked and eyebrows raised. “So, ready to deal with your shitty internal discourse like a big boy?”

Lance scoffed, a cynical smile playing on his features. “Fuck you, I’m not going to bite. I said I wasn’t going to deal with this shit.”

“Okay, Pinocchio,” Pidge threw him a condescending press of the lips. “When you’re ready to be a _real boy_ who isn’t talking absolute bull, come find me,” they dropped to the floor in an easy cross-leg, biting, “I’ll be here _all_ night.”

There was nothing cute about how obnoxious Lance found Pidge in that moment, his ire coming to a faint and gradual boil. They had the tendency, he supposed, to overstep their boundaries—and it happened often. He hadn’t minded it before, but something about the straightforwardness of it in that moment pressed on the throbbing vein in his temple. Lance never ask much of his friends—nothing, he’d argue—and knowing that well, he’d expected a smidgen of respect to be given to his desire to be left alone. He wasn’t subtle about it, after all. Lance took one step in Pidge’s general direction, the other staring him down challengingly, headstrong. 

Lance felt a soft palm find his chest, and through grit teeth and heaving lungs, he forced himself to look up into Hunk’s hard eyes. “Lance, _don’t_.”

“Don’t _what_?” he bit, pressing the wrist that held him back, away. 

“Seriously.” Hunk’s voice was flat, though it did little to take away from the sheer bite of the tone. “Stop.”

Lance’s lip curled in petulance as he looked away. “Whatever.”

It felt like oceans between them, a vast abysmal space that was never even an _option_ for their relationship—because Hunk was sweet and warm-hearted and supportive, even of Lance in his darkest hours. Hunk had always been the one who was there when things spun off their axis, and when things - like Lance’s emotions - were flung into space. No one, he knew, was quite like Hunk in that sense. No one laughed at his jokes as loudly, and no one supported his shitty comebacks as confidently. He was almost sure that it was a matter of moral support than much else, but through the thickest waves of emotion, it served to make Lance smile. Now though, in that moment - where Hunk and Pidge held their ground on one end, and Lance found himself on the opposite side of No Man’s Land with a rusted lance and a budding bitterness - he didn’t find that groundless support. 

He hated it. 

His eyes flit back to the chastising gaze before dropping to Pidge’s look of stoic impassivity. He was done here—and if both of them felt the need to wander his apartment for the next five hours until they - inevitably - grew bored, then so be it. Lance would not deal with this, because he already had too on his mind to handle more of Pidge’s self-righteous non-sense and Hunk’s desire to protect them. A part of him refused to succumb to the feelings of utter and complete betrayal. The _logical_ end to the conversation involved Lance’s head swaying with a scoff, before he dropped his boxer briefs and walked away—back to that gaudy bathroom with the iris print. 

There was, he decided, _some_ satisfaction in the squawks he’d received in response.

_“Oh god, Jesus, man—why!”_

_“Have you_ no _dignity whatsoever?”_

Something so silly that would have once made him smile, didn’t—and to put it simply, it felt like shit. His bare feet went from carpet to tile, his pace quickening—he wanted to get away from the living room as fast as humanely possible. He knew well that it was a matter of time before one of them, if not both, followed him in. Part of him wondered idly how long it took to drown in a bathtub; Lance figured - as he slipped into the tub with all the grace of a young lion cub, water washing over the edges and coating the ground in a thin sheen - it would take too long.

The bath water was lukewarm against his skin, rising in a mock coast against the circular peaks of his shoulders. Lance craned his head, letting the running faucet wash back his hair. The water, initially a searing hot, had faded into something a little colder, and for the fifth time that night, Lance found himself cursing the gods for his limping bank account. _Can’t even take a proper shower, bath, whatever_ , he dunked his head underwater, staring at the ceiling through the undulating haze of the shifting surface. With his nose only barely materializing above the water, Lance reached up and twisted the faucet.

Neither Hunk nor Pidge came in for a while. It gave him time to soak lethargically to the sound of their bickering, faint and diluted, forcing itself past the plaster walls and through the clear glass sheen of water. He paid their words little heed, closing his eyes, and forcing his body steady beneath the stilling waves, ripples dying slowly as the last few droplets of water fell from the tap. Lance let his lungs burn, the desire for breath searing against his insides—those moments, underwater, were long, but even with curling toes and trembling fingers, Lance held his head beneath. 

_Eighty-eight—eighty-nine—ninety—_

With eyes blinking open, he broke the surface with a choked heave, his body moving to sit itself upright, damp palms brought up to press against his equally damp skin. Lance allowed the lick of air to sate him. Despite the pain in his chest and the water he wiped from the corner of his lips, Lance wanted little more than a cigarette. He wanted a cigarette because Lance lied to himself for long enough to make it a necessity in the wake of situations like these. He was stressed—and angry—or sad, or all of the above combined in a sick orbit around his confused conscience. Lance took in a stuttering breath, palms still pressed to his face and he leant his back onto the wall by the tap, shoulder blades trembling at the touch of cold tile. _Fuck me,_ he let his fingers fall; it had been over a week of this. Over a week of this sulking, and it had gotten him no where at all but deeper into this shit. 

Lance turned his head towards the sink, the marble counter chipped at its corners, though - through its dated exterior - its once expensive, pristine nature shone through, fissures of faint grey breaking across the flat surface. He was hardly one for the aesthetics, and accordingly, all Lance found himself doing was reaching forward, his body stretching leanly past his toiletries to grab onto the beaten up pack of reds he’d thrown there earlier. That week had seen him burn through cigarettes like he hadn’t since high school. 

Because Lance didn’t smoke this much before he met Keith.

His damp fingers soaked into the card, leaving presses of water and thumb prints against the ivory paper. Lance flicked the small box open, his palm giving it a brief shake before he craned down to catch a cigarette between his lips effortlessly. It was almost disappointing how easy it was, and how practiced he had become at something he’d promised not to get hooked on. Pausing, a brief moment of hesitation reining his arms, Lance stared down at the pack. A moment later, he threw it back onto the counter and grabbed the lighter, _whatever_.

“Pretty sure that’s a health hazard.” Pidge’s voice was flat and unamused. Lance hadn’t heard them step into the bathroom, but he hadn’t given them the benefit of acknowledgement. He pressed the cigarette to his lips, heel of his palm pressed against his jaw as he dragged. “Especially in a bathroom this small.”

“Oh, is it, really?” he laced the sarcasm intentionally into every syllable, turning to blow his tobacco breath in Pidge’s general direction, eyes lidded. “Next time, I’ll come blow some rings in your floating jacuzzi, sultan. Save me the blue mist hookah, yeah?”

He heard Pidge’s irritated growl rather than saw the undoubtable contortion of their expression. If the heel slammed into his bathroom floor was much to go by, Lance figured their anger was slowly manifesting itself into physicality. He was irking Pidge, and that was enough for him to keep going. Taking another heave off the cigarette, Lance drew in a hissing breath through his teeth, keeping the tinted smoke in his lungs for a second or two longer. Head rolling to the side, he stared at Pidge, apathetic, before blowing it in a steady line straight up into their face. 

Pidge let the smoke break against their face, letting it wash away their controlled expression into something far more irate. They had lost their glasses somewhere in the process, their eyes a pale brown that seemed to darken with the lightening. “Do it _one more time_ , Lance, and I swear to you, your mother will have trouble identifying a body at the morgue.”

“With this gorgeous face?” There was no humor in his tone, his words drawled and lazy. The two fingers cradling his cigarette came up to point at his profile, “Never.”

“I don’t get it,” they snapped, sounding more exasperated than angry, their narrow shoulders rising under the soft fabric of a billowing grey cardigan. Pidge’s eyebrows peaked and their frown deepened, “What is your _damage_ , man? Should I apologize for caring?”

Lance turned away in favor of staring at the tiled wall the clawfoot was pushed up against. He didn’t respond, and instead took another slow drag, not needing to watch to know how the peeling embers fell steadily into the water, the vibrant orange dying when warm met cool. He tilted his head back and breathed a fountain of stained grey through his nose, allowing his arm to rest outside the tub, holding the cancer stick at a distance. 

It was never his intention to make Pidge feel guilty. It was never his intention to have them standing in his bathroom looking like they were close to throttling him or crying out of pure frustration, while he vented out all his personal issues in the form of practiced jackassery. He sighed looking down at the water. 

“What the fuck happened?” Pidge spoke again, when they realized Lance had no intention of responding. “You suddenly vanished off the face of the planet for god knows how long.”

“It doesn’t matter.” It didn’t. Keith didn’t matter.

Pidge shook their head, a small snort making it past their forced smile. They crossed their arms, looking down at him through narrow slits, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were done talking bullshit. Should I come back later?”

Lance grit his teeth and turned back to them. “ _Piss off_ , Pidge, _Jesus_. Take a fucking _hint_.”

There was no playful nickname, and there was nothing kind about the way he’d spat it into their face. For a brief moment of internal hesitation, Lance felt guilty—he felt guilty for the taken back look and the shaken expression and the step back Pidge had taken. They looked more failed and disbelieving than Lance had ever seen them, and to know he had done that made his tongue lie heavier between his teeth. He swallowed. Lance was a social creature who understood he way people worked - or so he liked to tell himself. He was simple and straightforward in his intentions, kind in the gifts he gave his siblings and the hugs he threw onto his mother’s shoulders—he was a man who hailed family and friends above all else.

But with the darkening look Pidge gave him, he wondered if he could still say that. 

The taxing silence ended with their wavering voice, unsteady in its lividity. “Here’s five bucks, Lance, buy a spine,” they snapped, “and do us all a favor and learn to deal with your shit.” They turned on their heel and headed for the door, Lance’s expression wincing in mild hurt behind them. _I guess I deserved that._ Then Pidge paused again, though this time, they hadn’t turned back.

“It’s the florist isn’t it?” it was mused, a tone of bitterness plaited into the question. Lance felt his chest cave in on itself, eyes trained onto the still surface of the water. He stayed silent. “I’m right, aren’t I? Well, I can’t say I’m too surprised—it doesn’t take a clairvoyant deity to see _why_ he left.”

The door was left angled, and that alone seemed far worse than slamming it shut. Lance unemotionally brought the cigarette tip to the surface, watching as both his fingers and the dying flame were engulfed in water.

_I guess I deserved that, too._

* * *

 

Hunk had given Pidge _one_ job—just _one_ , that they promised they could handle: get the information out of Lance slowly but surely, like dealing with a spooked deer. Hunk had initially offered to do it himself, being the only one who possessed a natural ability to deal with Lance. But Pidge had insisted, and with a worried press of the lips, Hunk had given them a brief nod of encouragement and vouched for on sitting it out on Lance’s beat up couch as both of them talked. He thought Pidge had things under control - their voices were far too muffled for him to make out what they were saying, and suddenly the heated bites had quieted down and Hunk had hope.

That was, until Pidge had walked out of the bathroom, face void of any emotion save the flush of disdain. 

They told him they were going home, and that he should, too - ‘ _there’s no use wasting your time with him._ ’

But that was where Pidge was _wrong_ ; Lance was a good kid—he had always been, and Hunk knew him better than anyone out there. He knew his smiles and what they meant, and his moods and how they swung and even the brief tremble in his eyebrows when he tried to be confident as he fought a losing battle. He knew Lance wanted a Jupiter tattoo on his ankle, so close to the ground— _‘shut it, Pidgeon, it won’t look like a circle with a bellybutton!’_ —because he wanted to be strong and he wanted to be _grounded_ ; Jupiter was the largest planet, with the strongest gravitational pull, and Jupiter was king of the gods and Jupiter was pretty and _‘all that good stuff’_ Lance would rant about for hours on end. Hunk, for all he was worth, knew how geeky and dorky and jovial Lance could be. 

And he knew just how easily Lance could hurt—in both meanings of the phrase. 

Pidge didn’t know him like Hunk did. That was why he smiled back and told them to go ahead, because if there was anyone who could talk some sense into Lance, he prided himself on the ability. He moved off the couch as soon as he’d heard the front door click closed gently. He heaved a sigh. _Here goes nothing._ Lance was stubborn, there was little doubt Hunk had in that department, but Lance wasn’t heartless. 

“Did I mess up?” Lance spoke as soon as Hunk stepped into the bathroom. He hadn’t looked up, his eyes trained on the two open palms he held under the water, knees high. Hunk answered him with a shallow sigh before sitting himself on the closed toilet seat across from the tub, watching how conflicted and genuinely bothered Lance looked, how he let his wet hair fall into his face. There was something distinctly _wrong_ with the sight. 

“I wouldn’t say _messed up_.” Hunk shrugged a single shoulder, “It’s more of a misunderstanding, I think.”

Lance scoffed, his palms falling, arms sinking further beneath the water. “I’ve never seen Pidge so fucking angry.”

Hunk’s mouth curled in contemplation, eyes scanning the guilty manner which Lance used to avoid his gaze. “I wouldn’t know. What did you tell them?”

“To piss off?”

Hunk’s palm found his face easily. “Jesus, Lance, what the hell?”

Lance splashed the surface childishly, hands thrown up into the air before aggressively brushing his bangs back. “They were prying, alright! I didn’t want to talk and they were being really— _pushy_ and stuff!”

“That’s kind of what friends are supposed to do Lance,” Hunk sighed, shaking his head. “Friends are pushy because they care.”

Lance’s shoulders sagged, a whine lacing his tone. It was childish and immature and Hunk couldn’t help but smile at the small frown on his face. “What am I supposed to do now, I’m in shit with _everybody_.”

“Well, apologies usually get the ball rolling,” he grinned back at the prominent deadpan Lance threw his way. “Besides, you’re not in shit with everyone—you still have me.”

“Damn it, Hunk, you don’t count!” Lance groaned tossing his head back, resting it against the cold tile. “That’s like being in shit with marshmallows or baby sloths.”

“Sloths?”

“Don’t question it.”

Hunk gave him a hearty laugh, bringing his two ankles up under him as he curled into a more comfortable position on the plastic seat. Talking to lance was easy and it was fun, though the laugh, much like the joke, was short lived because it hadn’t taken much for Hunk to see the genuine downturn in Lance’s lips and the crease that didn’t seem to straighten between his eyebrows. Slowly, Hunk let his laugh fall silent, because Lance hadn’t really laughed along with him. He smiled softly at the sulking mess who curled in on himself, “Pidge will forgive you. That’s the easy part, I think.”

Lance shook his head, almost like he couldn’t believe it. “I’d have to buy them coffee for the next five years.”

“I feel inclined to agree. I mean, I don’t think you get how awesome that would be for business,” Hunk joked, mock serious. “Imagine.”

Lance cracked a lopsided smile at that, small but genuine. “You shit.”

“For real though,” Hunk smiled back kindly, folding his arms over his sleeveless khaki jacket, “Pidge is easy to deal with; so, what’s really been eating you? I haven’t seen you in ages, man. You skipped out on Taco Tuesday, like twice, and that’s _religion_.”

Lance tried to force a smile, but he found his lip curling into a faint wince instead. The water had begun to grow cold around his body, faint bumps lining his arms and knees, the light of the evening sun dimming gradually as it left the rooms beyond the bath darkened. With a heaving breath, he looked Hunk in the eye for the first time since he’d walked in, his gaze sharp and serious. “Keith fucked me over.”

“Wait,” Hunk’s expression curled in confusion, “Keith the florist? The one you’ve been so in love with?”

Lance’s eyes widened into an incredulous glare, offended anger woven in his tone, “I’m not in love with the asshole. I couldn’t ever fall in love with some one like _that_.” _Not anymore, anyway._

Hunk ignored the comment easily; Lance had a tendency of overplaying things and viciously antagonizing people. Over the years, Hunk had gotten into too many miscommunication-lead fist-fights on his friend’s behalf. He’d learnt to use the benefit of the doubt to his advantage. “Well,” he shrugged, “what did the kid do?”

Lance barked a laugh, choppy and sarcastic and it took everything in Hunk not to grimace at the cruel sound. Lance leant back, picking the loofa off the corner, plucking at it idly with his short nails, eyes tracing his own movements. “Sabotaged me? Screwed me over? Gave me a giant ‘fuck you’ for the road? Took complete and absolute advantage of—” Lance’s voice caught in his throat, and for once in his life, Hunk couldn’t tell what emotion lay choked in the confines of Lance’s chest, anger or hurt, “— _whatever_. You name it.”

Hunk sighed, “Yeah, Lance. But what did he _do_.”

“Do you like flowers, Hunk?” Lance ignored him.

“What?"

Lance shrugged. “I like them—well, _liked_ them. They’re kind of cruel, man. Kind of like people. They’re so beautiful on the outside, radiant,” his smile was melancholy and distant as he watched the green loofa float out of reach, “but they fuck you up, man. Who would have thought a leaf had that sort of power? Shit.”

Hunk frowned, “Lance, I would normally joke about how weird and messed up you sound, but frankly, I’m kind of concerned.”

Lance sighed. “He gave me flowers to give to Nyma.”

“The brat barbie?”

“Yea—” Lance did a sharp double take, “Wait, what the _fuck_?”

Hunk cringed and brought a palm to his mouth, “Shit, Pidge _told_ me not to say that.”

“You called her that?” Lance sat up further after having begun to slope in his seat, his eyes wide and incredulous, “I was practically in love with her, you jerks!”

Hunk smiled apologetically, “Lance you’re so stupid sometimes. We can’t help but talk about this sort of thing—she was seriously shallow. I don’t get you, honestly.”

Lance splashed him with water. “This is serious, dickmunch! Keith _killed_ my chances with her!”

“Remind me to send the kid some thank you brownies and a hundred dollars for his voluntary aid.” Hunk laughed, hands coming up to shield his face from the onslaught. He put his hands up in faux prayer, “I’d like to thank you, god. You’re a real homie.”

“ _Hunk_!” Lance hissed, and it was only when he looked back at how livid and red in the face the other looked, did Hunk let the joke die on his tongue. It was definitely serious—but then again, so was Hunk. He wasn’t happy about Lance pining after this girl, even when Pidge themselves had given her the benefit of the doubt. There was something off about her from the start, ever since Lance had brought her into the store for the first time, her giggles and fake smiles in tow. 

Pidge knew it, Coran knew it,  _Keith from the flower shop down the road_ probably knew it too:  Hunk didn’t trust Nyma as far as he could throw her—and he could throw her pretty far. 

He quieted down, but the set of his jaw told Lance he was just as serious. “She wasn’t good for you. At all. She left you in the fucking dumps—”

“Because of fucking—” Lance’s voice peaked in indignation, his voice thick and low through hissed teeth, “— _Keith_. He messed everything up! He always messes _me_ up! With his damn  _opportunities_ and bad luck, oh please—boo-fucking-hoo—” his voice took on an irritating falsetto, “— _I was studying aeronautical but I got kicked out ‘cause I couldn’t tug my ninety-pound ass around to work, whoops! aha - aha, and look, now I work at a flower shop where I_ —fucking—” the curse was deeper than the rest of the sentence, before Lance continued in a heightened pitch. Hunk would be lying if he said that Lance’s impeccable voice modulation didn’t freak him out a little bit, _“—mess with people's emotions and their relationships because why the_ hell _not? I’ve got all the time in the world, after all! Because ‘Lance, I work at a—’_ fucking _‘—flower shop!_ ’” his palms slapped the surface of the water with finality. 

Hunk shook his head, entirely lost. “What did Keith _do_ , exactly? Other than apparently hail your wrath via envy and leave you with no other vocab words but 'fuck' and 'flower'.”

“Screw you,” he snapped, clearly hurt at the comment, “he gave me carnations that _rejected_ her. And then he had the fucking audacity—” Lance laughed incredulously, in heated disbelief, “to act like we were buddies afterwards! I found out by sheer luck, Hunk. _Luck_.”

Hunk looked entirely unimpressed by the entire ordeal, before pinching the bridge of his nose patiently. “So basically, you’re telling me—I pray this isn’t the case—that you’ve _legit,_ no shitting me here _,_ convinced yourself that Nyma—that Nyma—dumped you over a _flower_?”

“She did!”

Hunk was fed up, his eyebrows peaking. Lance was not an idiot and he hated it when he acted like one. “Lance, fuck off. I don’t believe you genuinely feed into that nonsense. So eat glue and shut up. Nyma turned you down because she didn’t genuinely care about _you_ or your ‘feelings _’_.” Lance fumed in silence, cutting holes into Hunk’s gaze. “You don’t honestly think any of that is true, I _know_ you don’t. Now, I've never met Keith, nor do I know what his intentions are, but I’m not a dumbass, Lance,” he snapped, voice caked in irritation, “so don’t treat me like one.”

“I _didn’t_.” It was flat. 

“You did, the moment you thought I would buy that bullshit,” Hunk sighed, his anger subsiding into a calmer chastising tone. “It’s all in the diction buddy—‘ _messes_ ’ you ‘ _up_ ’? Mentioning emotions before relationships? Jesus, Lance, you’re denser than the worst of them. I don’t know what the flowers are or what they meant, but it sounds to me like a personal vendetta, not some knight-in-shining-armor premise on behalf of a bitch.”

Lance’s nose twitched, his voice sharp. “So what, maybe it is? Maybe those flowers were directed at me? Maybe I _am_ jealous? I’m human Hunk—and no human wants to get a bouquet of ‘ _you’ve disappointed me_ ’ piss yellow carnations, so forgive me if I’m just a _tinsy-winsie_  bit vexed.”

Hunk heaved in a patient, but wholly exasperated breath; thanks to Lance, he lived in contradiction. “This Keith is the same person you used to share that tasteless tea with every couple of days?”

Lance sounded frustrated, “Yeah, so?”

“Same dude who made you literate?” He ignored the indignant scoff, “Same guy who ‘leans into’ you and looks ‘really pretty with flowers in his hair’ and the same dude, who I don’t know, _kissed_ you? Your words,” Hunk gave him a soft, disbelieving chuckle, “not mine.”

“It means nothing to him—” the anger fell short, making way for a defeated flicker in Lance’s eyes, “did you not listen to what the carnations meant? They mean rejection, Hunk.”

“But you weren’t into him at the time,” he shrugged, “and honestly, he sounds invested in you, Lance. No one kisses anyone for shits and giggles and then runs off.” He wanted to add _unless you’re Nyma_ but he figured it served little. With another sigh, he continued, studying how Lance turned away from him in favor of running his fingers across the water’s surface. “I’m not philosophical or whatever, but have you ever stopped to think that maybe those flowers should be seen in a different sort of context, Lance?”

“Should I change it from ‘fuck you’ flowers to something a little more creative?”

Hunk shook his head, “I’m being serious, Lance—maybe he did want you to get the message, but what if it was more of an _‘I’m disappointed we aren’t together, so here are some disappointment flowers_ ’ rather than a ‘ _wait let me kiss you before I give you a bunch of free flowers for fun, and - oh - also I hate you by the way_ ’, you get me?”

Lance looked up from staring at his hands, a small and bitter smile on his face. “Doesn’t fucking matter.”

Hunk’s eyebrows creased. “What, why?”

“Because I gave him a taste of his own attitude.”

Hunk’s eyes widened and something small inside him held its breath. “Please tell me you didn’t.” Lance didn’t answer. “You gave him one of those shitty flowers, didn’t you?” Lance looked at his nails, picking idly at his cuticles. Hunk groaned loudly, “Lance, what the _fuck_!”

The other shrugged defensively, palms trembling in rage, “What - you can’t possibly sit there and tell me he didn’t deserve them!”

“You don’t get it do you?” Hunk’s voice faltered, looking back at Lance in shock and utter disappointment. “That’s the thing with flowers, isn’t it Lance? Sure they have a set ‘meaning’, but it’s the context that gives them relevance; he gave them to you out of - what I kind of assume - was emotionality—” his shoulders sagged and his mouth hung open in pause, “—you did it because you were a prideful _dick_. The only difference is, now he thinks you rejected his _feelings_ , Lance. In the worst way you could have ever done it. The kid never broke your heart,” Hunk scoffed, eyes wide, “but it’s alright, because you broke both yours and his in one fell swoop. Good job. ”

Lance swallowed, eyebrows trembling as he fought to keep the glare on his face, “I didn’t break my own heart. I don’t love him.”

“Is that why you look like _that_?” Hunk smiled, bittersweet, getting up from his seat with a certain finality. “Is that why none of us have seen you in days? Is that why you’re hung up on something so stupid? Please, I don’t care _what_ you call it, but for once in your life, Lance - be good to yourself. Be selfish. I’m not asking you to apologize to him for him—do it for you.” 

_Because_ —it went unsaid, and with every second of unspoken advice, Lance felt his heart sink further— _for once, Lance, I think you’ve finally done it._

_I think you’ve fallen in love._

His face fell in misery, voice wavering, “Fuck my life, why do I always mess shit up, man?”

“I wouldn’t call it messing up,” Hunk leant down and gave him a brief pat on his drying shoulder, “I like to call it one big misunderstanding.”

Lance sighed, listening to the door click shut behind Hunk; he was right, he always was. Biting his lip, Lance thought of Pidge, short, angry Pidge—and then he thought of Keith. His eyes slid shut, determination set between his shoulders, and peace in his chest. Two people owe him something, and in the back of his mind, he apologized to Hunk briefly; he couldn’t be selfless, because they deserved better from him; they deserved an apology. Keith was in the wrong—but so was Lance, and for once, compromising found its way into his decision-making—and it brought serenity in tow.

_Apologies get the ball rolling?_ Lance smiled to himself, small and hesitant. _Fine_ , _then_. 

The bathroom trash saw a half-empty packet of cigarettes on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IRISES, Yellow: dedication/friendship
> 
> i’m done angst-ing for this story - congrats, you made it through! #endtheangst, right?
> 
> on a more serious note, some of you have made some wonderful [ art](http://venpast.tumblr.com/tagged/ofts+art) for this fic, and i genuinely can’t express how much i love each and everyone of the pieces you guys tag me in! they make my heart do funny, funny things. they - much like their artists - are absolutely beautiful (thank you, guys!) :) so please, if you do make something, [ don’t forget to tag me](http://venpast.tumblr.com/) \- i'd love to see it! 
> 
> feel free to send me a message, too! even if it's just to say hello :)


	10. bicycles and bated breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a long chapter as well - and i apologize beforehand for the messy writing. i'm feeling a little under the weather these days, so i'll probably go back and edit the heck out of this as soon as i get the chance
> 
> alright guys, enjoy and see you at the bottom

It had been a week since Lance had had his talk with Hunk, and he yielded near no results at all. He was going to fix things, whether or not fate had it out for him—he would take to the streets, and he would find a way to get past both the side glares Pidge gave him in class and his own clear avoidance of Keith’s flower shop. There was one thing Hunk had been wrong about, though: Pidge was no easy task to handle, and they were nowhere near forgiving him, despite his hesitant smiles and his feeble attempts at conversation. Pidge was in no way subtle about it either—they could barely stand him - or at the very least, didn’t want to deal with him. Lance, not knowing what else to do, had gone with the physical route: whenever he’d find them in a common class, or wrapped up in a book on a campus bench, he would casually slide in beside them, or put an arm around their shoulder, with a bad joke on the tip of his tongue. He was never given enough time to execute it though, because sooner rather than later, he found himself abandoned just as fluidly and without a second glance, his arm thrown off, and Pidge’s eyes still indifferently laced onto whatever it was they were reading. 

That day, as he hauled himself out of class, was no different.

Pidge was clearly not going to settle for moving past the scenario without some form of emasculating retribution—Lance just wasn’t sure what it was he could do to get back into their favor. Hunk had already helped him cheat— _‘you actually need to_ say _you’re sorry. Lance, not just pretend like everything’s okay’_ —but getting Pidge to speak to him was, on its own, nearly impossible. They had walked out of the only seminar they shared with Lance without a glance over their shoulder. It hadn’t helped that it had also been the last seminar of the semester before the onslaught of exams broke against their sleep schedules like waves to surf. After all, exams were a weekend’s clock away, and Lance had begun to worry that he was gradually running out of time and opportunities to talk to Pidge. That thought weighing heavily in his mind,  Lance sulked.

He walked off campus with a textbook tucked under his arm, its hard cover pressing into the curve of his ribs. Lance’s frown was contemplative as he practically thread his fingers into the arm strap of his backpack, swinging it forward with ease before tucking the book inside. _Damn it, Pidge, cave already,_ he thought, feet coming to a firm stop in front of the bicycle rails built into the side of his lecture building, the elongated semi-circles etched with faint rust and the typical fraternity stickers—‘ _THETA CHI_ ΘΧ _’_ —that left little of the dulled grey metal visible. With a jaded breath, Lance cocked his head, staring down at his bicycle, eyes tracing the faded blue paint of the shift levers to the colorfully braided threads lining the length of the top tube—his younger sister’s handy work; work he’d been too weak to turn down. Sighing, he slung his backpack over both shoulders and bent down to unlock the chain. He was going to find a way to corner Pidge—he was going to make them listen one way or another, he decided. 

He tucked the lock back around the lower tube before pulling the bike out, straddling in the seat in one fluid movement. His feet pushed against the ground and into the streets, taking him from the old antique whites and bisque brick of aging college buildings, to the pastels and lively palette of narrow streets and the sun-bleached brown brick of alleyways. 

The town breathed with life, little and calm but present, the day still young in its afternoon, sun high—and Lance, despite his internal turmoil, loved it. While autumn was pleasant, and far less cruel than winter, he had to admit the soft spot he had for spring—for _summer_. Something about the light and the toasty warmth of basking on a street bench in the summer did the world far more justice than any other season for him. There was a certain glow that was brought with every clear morning, and Lance couldn’t help but wish that he could harness those emotions, and translate them into something better than a half-assed apology. 

_Quiznak_ , he thought, stilling his peddling as he turned a corner, listening to the clicking circuit of the chain, crankset whirring, _what am I going to do?_ He found himself more stressed over his personal relationships than astrobiology or Fredinand Magellan, and with his lack of studying in recent weeks, Lance figured this attitude didn’t bode well for his grades. He worked hard - he always had - to get where he was, to _succeed,_ and given how far behind he’d fallen, the crease in his brow wouldn’t straighten out. It was, though, an unamendable type of worry; he didn’t work much to change it. He would sit down and attempt to study in hopes some passing information would make its way into his memory at least for the short term, but nothing actively sunk in. His mind always found ways to distract itself, whether by mentally bitching because Pidge refused to return his calls - _alright, so maybe I deserve that -_ or by worrying over _Keith_ and how Keith was doing. 

_Keith_. 

Lance heaved in a breath, his bike following the curved road, wheels tracing the slope. While he’d come to terms with his feelings, _all of them_ , Lance knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t jump the Kogane hurdle without running the Holt track first. Pidge was more important to him than his own feelings—and friends, he knew, always came first—no matter what. 

Lance frowned, he was probably just going to go home - _again_ \- and crack open a book on high-energy astrophysics and call it a day. It was how the past week had gone, anyway. The only difference was Lance didn’t _want_ to go home and study alone, because he missed sitting at the coffeeshop; he missed mooching off Hunk’s employee privileges while yelling over Pidge, who tried to desperately explain something to him. That was how exam week was _meant_ to lapse, not like this.

Then something occurred to him, his eyes lighting up in realization. Lance brought his bike to a screeching halt, fingers gripping the handle-brakes as the blue body of the bicycle skid to a stop, sliding sideways once his foot met gravel. _How the fuck did I not think of it before?_ his smile grew, slow and triumphant, as he redirected the metal neck of the bicycle, heaving the frame upward and around. This was fucking _exam season,_ and there was _one_ place where Pidge always was - where Pidge would refuse to leave even if Lance bugged them. Lance’s smile broadened into a grin and he took the road again. 

_Well, Hunkie boy, you better damn well have a vanilla latte for me when I get there._

* * *

 

It didn’t take him long to reach the coffeeshop, and although Lance didn’t live especially far, he was glad he wasn’t home by the time he came to the realization. He jumped off the bicycle, readjusting his backpack, before wheeling it into a small alley and locking the aging thing into a paring bench. _Pretty sure this is illegal_ , he mused with a soft smile before promptly preparing to walk away; his excitement was tangible and it kept him impatient. After all, the worst they could do was take the bike away - which would suck - but Lance was fine with anything that didn’t involve jail time. He tucked both palms into his jeans, giving the sight of the old bike one last once over before rounding the corner out of the alleyway, feet scraping the ground with every step forward, long legs lazy in their movements. 

He had to admit that although he was adamant on having a good mood that day, he was scared. Lance didn’t want Pidge to blatantly ignore him - _again_. He had felt remorse from the moment they left the bathroom that night—he just wished there was someway he could genuinely _show_ them that. Pidge had been there through thick and thin for too long for something like this to get between them, even if at first Lance wanted to play the ‘ _they’re exaggerating, I wasn’t_ that _mean_ ’ argument; the unimpressed cock of Hunk’s head made him sheepishly scratch his neck with a half-assed, ‘ _fine, fine, it’s on me_ ’.

He came to a stop in front of the thick, watermarked glass, watching from outside how the coffeehouse bustled with a gentle ease. Some students were seated at the high-rise bar against the glass, laptops open, stickers and scratches lining the grey metal or black plastic, others were curled into literature and variant fauteuils, glasses of cool iced-coffee sitting idle on the wooden tables. With a deep breath, his eyes caught onto the familiar curl of caramel hair. O _h god_ , he thought, pushing through the door and into the store, a fake charisma lancing his shoulders. He decided then and there he would save his confidence for the two inevitable confrontations he’d have to make. Lance had a vague idea of what would get him back into Keith’s good graces, but Pidge, as sad as it was, left Lance lost. He swallowed when he neared the back of their head, watching the soft hair curl at their nape.

They had recently cut it, Lance noted, a little too unprepared to speak without accidentally biting his tongue or doing something just as painful and embarrassing. It was a choppier cut than what they’d had before, soft and peaked, rather than shaggy shoulder-length—Lance stood a couple of feet away, and although he didn’t see Pidge from the front, he felt himself relax; _it probably suits them even if it looks like it was cut by a lawnmower_. It warmed his heart to imagine his short friend in front of a mirror, struggling to cut their own hair, eyebrows twitching in typical agitation before giving up entirely on the concept of symmetry, _poor Pidget_. Lance’s amused eyes fell from the back of Pidge’s head to the counter, where Hunk’s gentle smile met his. Lance gave him a stiff nod, and it only took a moment for the other to gather what he meant by it; Hunk, who had once been bent over his own textbook, left to go make a drink despite Coran’s objections.

Breathing thickly, Lance walked forward, dragging one of the high chairs to the circular service table before plopping down on it casually, throwing his bag beneath him. His body and head stared forward, but he couldn’t help but roll his eyes to their corners, watching Pidge not-so-subtly. They had once typed away at their aging laptop, hazel tied onto the blue-lit screen, nails tapping at the keys with unparalleled precision. The letters looked worn, computer laced with yellow post-its and green tags, its palm-rests smudged with felt-tip binary and decimal codes. It was so very characteristic of Pidge, that Lance was almost taken enough to miss how their agile fingers stilled and that set gaze left the screen to stare ahead; _almost_. He wet his lips.

“Hey—”

“Don’t.” Pidge snapped flatly, their eyes still trained at nothing in particular. “Don’t be stupid.”

At this, Lance turned in his seat, straddling the wood awkwardly, one leg tucking itself between the back of the chair and his body, foot brushing the rise of his other knee, “But I didn’t say anything yet!”

Pidge hadn’t responded, or attempted acknowledge Lance’s outburst in the slightest, instead they fell back in their seat with arms crossed. “ _Hunk_!” they hissed, voice loud and in every bit as immature as Lance’s loud squawk. Lance watched Hunk’s shoulder blades roll, sagging at the sound before he turned pleadingly towards a livid Pidge from the other end of the service area. “Hunk, _come back_!”

His eyes pressed closed, fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and Lance couldn’t help but feel he looked entirely done with the both of them. Hunk’s eyes reopened, looking chidingly at Pidge, an exasperated curl to his lips. Pidge rolled their eyes, turning their head to the side, away from both of their focused gazes. Releasing a breath through his nose, Hunk tapped Coran on the shoulder and handed him the half-finished drink before making his way back to his two sulking friends. 

Hunk lent forward on his two elbows in front of Pidge, his finger brushing the edge of their laptop. He pushed the screen closed slowly,“Come on, Pidge. He’s _trying_ —”

“—yes, I’m fucking _trying_!”

“—and he’s sorry—”

“—I already _said_ sorry, but yeah—!”

Hunk turned to Lance sharply with a frown and a slow blink and a gradually raising eyebrow. _Do you want this to work or not?_ Taking the hint - although begrudgingly - Lance’s teeth clicked shut, sealing in any other comments that would’ve fallen free. He figured his interruptions weren’t as helpful as he needed them to be, and given that look, his hunch was nothing if not right. Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek, eyes scanning over the scene unfolding in front of him with anxious curiosity. Part of him felt like Hunk wouldn’t be able to do much, given how off Pidge was. 

“As I was saying, Lance’s been trying to apologize,” Hunk threw him a pointed look, to which Lance gave him a frustrated huff, hands thrown in the air, expression comically open, “ _properly_ , for being a Class-A dick.”

Pidge scoffed, still refusing to recognize Lance as part of the conversation. They looked back at Hunk, eyebrows high behind their glasses, “Oh yeah?”

Hunk nodded, “Yeah.”

“So, he wants to apologize for his entire personality at this point?”

“ _Oi_.”Lance sputtered, head snapping to the side to glare at Pidge’s indifference. 

Hunk hadn’t missed a beat, reaching forward to slap a palm over Lance’s mouth, whose entire head rocked slightly; he smiled pleasantly back at Pidge’s unimpressed stare, “Basically—yeah. That’s what we’re going for.”

Pidge’s deadpan remained unamused, eyes expressive despite the flatness of the gaze itself. 

Lance pawed at Hunk’s fingers, trying his best to pry the warm, caramel smelling palm off his face. It was humiliating as it was to be excluded from the conversation, but to be silenced entirely was too much for his ego to take. Hunk relented, letting his hand drop as Lance melodramatically floundered in the air. “Come on, buddy. Talk to him, please—for me?”

Pidge stared at him long and hard, eyes tracing the soft curves of Hunk’s face, before falling to an irritated close. Lance grinned when he saw the fight leave their stance; _god bless you, Hunk, where the hell would I be without you_. “ _Fine_ , I’ll hear him out.” They turned to Lance with a sharp glare, “What the hell do you wan—”

“ _I’m so sorry_ ,” his interruption was quick, voice airy and rushed. Lance couldn’t help it: he grinned widely, the flattened rise and fall of his teeth’s horizon swallowing the jovial expression.He watched Pidge’s face curl in mild shock, eyes fluttering between blinks, looking entirely taken back by the immediate response. Lance’s white grin fell into something more tame, a soft, genuine quirk of the lips; his mind caught up with him, and he felt the self-conscious thoughts seep past his initial excitement. “Uh, yeah. I’m so sorry, Pidge.”

Pidge leant forward in their seat, pushing their closed laptop to the side before resting on one elbow facing Lance lazily, “And?”

_Wait—what?_ Lance panicked internally, not having thought past a brief apology. He could feel Hunk studying his response from his peripheral, and it was the single least reassuring presence Lance had every felt in his relatively short life. “Um, I’m sorry?”

“Yeah,” they scoffed, “or so I’ve been told - about four times now. Good job.”

He winced, teeth grit. “Sorry about that.”

“Again? Are you _kidding_ me now?” Pidge shook their cradled head in disbelief, entirely unimpressed as they beat the devil’s tattoo against the laptop lid, “Let me make this _easy_ for you, Lance—what exactly did you learn from this shit-storm extravaganza?”

Lance’s shoulder rose and fell in a half-hearted shrug, “To appreciate the people who care about me?”

“Why’re you phrasing it like a question?” Pidge inquired, tone keen. “Do you want _reassurance_ from me?”

Lance sighed, partially exhausted, eyes sliding closed. Dealing with a cynic was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, and Pidge had the personality made and tailored into their own special art form. There was no getting past the cryptic questions and the skeptical stares and the blatant sarcasm that seemed to lace their very breath. Nothing, he thought, but genuine and absolute honesty, that was. It was why the shallow nature of his approaches had fallen short, time and time again - and despite how aware Lance felt of his surroundings at that particular moment - the lady entering, the kid sipping loudly on his coffee, the girl giggling into her phone - an overwhelming urge to simply get everything out there and be done with it overpowered his uncharacteristic hesitance. He opened his eyes with newfound determination. 

“I’m sorry - for bitching and yelling and not understanding or appreciating your worry. I’m sorry for taking that for granted, Pidge.” Lance’s expression straightened out, no longer smiling, instead it held itself in a series of serious lines and set jaws. “I didn’t want to put you in a situation like that, okay? Where you had to deal with my shit on top of everything, while worrying about my well being of all fucking things. But I was mad, alright? And sad and lonely and heartbro—” he faltered for a breath, eyes fluttering away from the calculative stare that held—instead, Lance found the wooden edge of the service table, unable to meet Pidge’s gaze. 

“And _heartbroken,”_ he breathed, admittance lying heavy on his tongue, “I—I messed up, I know. I messed up a shit-ton. I messed up with a lot of people, Pidge, and I’m suffering every - well deserved - consequence down the road. But I’m trying, alright? I’m _trying_ to make things okay again, as fucking cliché and ugly as it sounds. Call it bullshit, call it ass-licking, whatever. But I think I need you now a little more than I ever have before, man,” his smile was weak, directed at nothing in particular, “and god _knows_ how fucking dependent on you I normally am.”

Pidge was silent for a length of time that stretched farther than Lance would’ve liked. There was no sound between them save Hunk clearing his throat awkwardly, and the occasional scrape of mugs and silverware, chatter low and distant. Lance’s eyes held themselves steady on the lip of the table, the heat of Pidge’s eyes knotting into his temple and drawing lines of discomfort across his face. He could feel the shrewd and unforgiving stare that held him still—Lance had begun to wonder whether or not he should speak again, whether Pidge was _expecting_ him too. He heard rather than saw Hunk’s uncomfortable shifting; he and Hunk were both loud, boisterous - _expressive_ \- and accordingly, it was Pidge’s moments of calculative silence that had their sanity in a grip of vice. _Say_ _something_ , Lance bit his lip, chin tucked into his chest, _please_. 

And they did.

“I should let you soak in the guilt-ridden brine you made for yourself, you know,” Pidge mused, a contemplative hum to their tone. Lance felt himself wince, letting his eyes roll to their corners, staring at Pidge entirely humbled. They hadn’t looked mad, threading their fingers together, pressing bony knuckles to their lips. “I could do that, you know. Tell you to _piss off_ , and get lost—” they gave a loud scoff, “I mean, I’ve dropped plenty of _hints_ , right, Lance?”

Lance’s open mouth clicked shut.

“I thought so.” Pidge sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose, glasses tilting upward with the movement. “It’s sad, ‘cause no matter _what_ I do, it’s always going to be letting you off easy, I hope you know that.”

“I do,” Lance spoke, his voice small and hopeful, “I’m a piece of shit, I know.”

Pidge let their hand fall, glasses slipping back into place. Lance couldn’t help bun notice that they looked more exasperated than much else, their expression tired and drained. He felt the guilt crawl up the back of his neck; Pidge was already suffering through studying, and Lance had to come to the table with this stressful nonsense. “I should drag you a little more, just to see you learn to appreciate the care that gets thrown your way.”

“I do appreciate it.”

“You sure do have a funny way of showing it.” He felt his heart fall a little—there was nothing that could guilt him more than making a friend feel that way—but before Lance could burst out into another wave of crippled sobbing, Pidge threw him a tight but genuine smile, “Also, don’t call me ‘man’, Lance.” Least to say, the only expression that made itself onto his face was one of slow realization and numb shock. There was little verbal interaction between them save the sound of Hunk hooting in the background, both thankful and relieved. He patted a dazed Lance on the shoulder before walking away slowly towards the coffee machine with a mouthed ‘ _finally_ ’. 

Lance didn’t notice him go, eyes trained on the smug smile plotted across Pidge’s features, mind preoccupied. 

“Uh—yes _sir_!” he let his hand rise in salut, before pausing, “Wait—ma’am?—you know what? _Pidge_. I’ll stick with Pidge.” Lance rambled, nodding to himself. He smiled, gentle and _happy_ , looking down at them with warm eyes, “Yeah, yeah; Pidge-pie.”

Pidge, despite themselves, shook their head with a genuine laugh, “You’re so dumb, Lance, _jeez_.”

His grin widened, and before they could object, Lance grabbed their chin with his fingers, pressing a steady, long peck onto their temple. Pidge let out a soft shriek, pushing Lance away as he laughed. “Love ya, Pid-kid.”

“You’re affectionate mood swings are so _nasty,_ Lance,” they snapped, but he saw the smile they did their best to hide. “I’m a glutton for punishment, apparently—I don’t know why I do this to myself.”

Lance couldn’t keep the joy, pictured in a wide smile and high brows, off his face. It was refreshing, even if a part of him still believed he didn’t deserve it—their forgiveness, that was. The past week was hardly what he would’ve called easy, but he supposed Pidge had the right to give him a little bit of a hard time. Besides, they were right: they hadn’t given him _nearly_ enough of it. Lance deserved a beating, not a pretty smile; he figured he’d make it up to them by being a little better this time around. _Thanks, Pidget_.

Lance’s eerily set smile - and Pidge’s uncomfortable neck scratch - were both interrupted by Hunk, who placed a larger than life mug of tar-dark, black-eye coffee between them, looking confident in his execution, a wide grin in place. Pidge was the first to react, looking up from the drink to Hunk with a puzzled expression. “Uh, Hunk? I didn’t order anythi—”

“I know,” Hunk smiled, his voice lofty an pleasant. He turned to Lance with a knowing smile, throwing him a brief wink as he watched realization dawn. “It’s on Lance. For the next five years.”

Lance’s eyes slid closed, one thought singing hymns of fucking _regret_ in his mind: _goddamn it - why me_. He opened them again in a comic wince that left all his features tight and contorted, _my wallet is not going to like this, at all_. Pidge’s smile was slow and baleful in every way, their eyes steady on Lance, not wavering once as they picked up the piping porcelain mug with two palms. _Fucking savage_ , his wince deepened, watching them take a languid sip from the steaming liquid with sharp eyes. “Oh, is it really?” Pidge hummed, putting the drink down with a sated lip smack. “Good to know. In that case, I think I’ll have one more, Hunk.”

“You _will_?” Lance breathed weakly.

“I will.”

His head met the table with a groan, Hunk’s laughter hearty in the background. “They’ll have one more, Hunk.”

Pidge cackled genuinely, a small series of choppy snorts that would’ve been otherwise endearing had it not been for the cruel financial context. They patted him on the head, ruffling his hair patronizingly once Hunk had _actually gone to make the second drink_ , “Look at you - so _obedient_ now! I think I can get used to this.”

Lance turned to face them, cheek still pressed against the wood, “Please don’t.”

“No promises.”

He sighed, heavy and long and _suffering;_ he had a feeling that Pidge enjoyed every stretched second of his semi-wailing, if their small grin was anything to go by. _You won’t be smiling for long, you little shit,_ he thought, sitting up in his seat. Lance tucked in his lips and smacked the table with a quick, open palm, “So, Tid-bit - I actually need your help.”

Pidge’s face fell almost immediately and Lance allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction, “ _Excuse_ me?”

It was Lance’s turn to smile, a playful eyebrow twitching twice, “Come on, I _need_ you,” he whined, entirely aware of his cheesiness, “—you’re my _backbone_.”

“Didn’t I give you five dollars to buy one of those?”

“ _Oi_!”

Pidge sighed, relenting; they seemed satisfied enough with his offended squawk. “Last time you asked me for ‘help’, we had to go through all the florists in town for a fucking _cactus_ ,” they huffed, rolling their eyes, “so, _surprise_ me.” 

Lance’s grin grew steadily. 

* * *

 

Keith was - other than always lacking a better word for it - partially _fucked_. He was fucked in the emotional sense, where nothing he did made him genuinely happy, and in the mental sense where every small thing reminded him of Lance. He supposed this was what it was like to get your heart broken. It was a shitty feeling to say the least, and it hadn’t gotten any better—because Keith had made a small, tiny miscalculation: he assumed that time and distance would make things settle. Though, in the few weeks that Lance hadn’t come into the shop, Keith couldn’t help but feel worse. He - despite his resolute stance against apologizing - felt _guilty_. _Maybe Shiro’s right_ , he thought, slipping into a pair of beige canvas espadrilles, _maybe I am doing it to myself_.

Keith sat at the edge of his bed, looking down at the sewn jut rope braided into the soles of his shoes. He rested his head in his palm, toes tapping idly as he stared down at them; it was too early to open shop, but he couldn’t stay in bed any longer. It seemed the more free time he gave himself, the more he thought of the things he was doing his best to avoid—in other words: Lance McClain. That name always came back to him, even when Keith thought of all that was unrelated—from his muesli breakfast to the flickering rear light on his vespa. He closed his eyes, _whatever_. It was clear as day that Lance didn’t want him - and Keith couldn’t _really_ blame him for that. 

But Keith wasn’t over him, and therein lies the fucking problem. 

It wasn’t as though Keith wasn’t trying to get over him—because, by the _moon_ , he wasn’t doing anything _but_ trying to get Lance out of his head. It should have been easy—because Lance was, for one, a dick. He was a horrible human being, who didn’t understand what it meant to have these types of _emotions,_ ones that took away any and all agency Keith may have had. He swallowed, the thought applied to him too, he realized with a bitten lip. He hadn’t given any thought to how Lance might have felt.

Keith let that particular thought process fall. 

He pushed himself up; the room was much cleaner than it had been weeks prior, the clothes now thrown in the wash, and the empty bottles thrown away. Even the sealed ones, were left stored and untouched in his kitchen cabinet. It was one thing, he supposed, that came out of this entire mess: tolerance and patience. Keith may not have gotten out of the emotional end of the woods, but he supposed time away from Lance made him think a little more clearly; distance made him think _coherently_ , at least—and for once, despite the sadness that replaced anger rather quickly, he was glad not to be looking at the world through the bottom of a shot glass. 

Keith tucked both hands into the loose fabric of his patterned pants, the elastic hugging right above his ankles. He—he had a _problem_ , one that could mostly be expressed by: _shit, I’m never going to get over him_. It was dramatic and exaggerated and Keith knew that well, but it was a slow process that left him doubting whether or not he actually _wanted_ to get over Lance. The man had proven time and time again that Keith’s feelings were one-sided, though it was the _idea_ of Lance that left him clinging on to his own possibly unrequited emotions. It was the idea of waking up next to Lance, counting the constellations of freckles that dotted his nose and the earthy smell of his shampoo; the idea of sitting across from him on the breakfast table, the idea of sharing his tea—hell, the idea of having what they had before, completely platonic, was more appealing to him than _this_. 

With a gentle, satisfied sigh, Keith left the brightly sun-lit room, sliding the door shut behind him. He figured a half hour early at the store was better than sitting there. The smile he gave on his way out was soft—sure, he wasn’t over Lance yet, but he figured he would be eventually.

_Why rush it?_ he mused, thinking of Shiro, _it’s okay to hurt._

* * *

 

It was a good day; Keith had had a lot of ‘good’ days in the past week, and this one had him tending to pretty summer flowers while helping an old man make a bouquet for his wife. It was their forty-seventh anniversary—something the man had taken visible pride in—and with a gentle smile, Keith offered his help. It was usually Allura that handled these types of orders, her pleasant and genuine nature making it easy for people to go along with what she was offering. Keith was more of a side-lines man, he supposed, watering the succulents and clipping vines, but that day luck played this ball into his court and for once he didn’t want to turn it down. 

It was a pleasant exchange in the mid-afternoon. The man had walked in with a smile and a cane, telling the ‘young man’ to fetch him something worthy of a ‘queen’. Keith was normally one who shrugged these types of things off without a second glance, but he couldn’t help but feel happy at the idea that this little old man thought of his wife as royalty was heartwarming. He never thought he’d ever have a heartwarming experience in his life, given that he seldom cared about anything save Red and Shiro.

And Lance. He would swear on Saturn that it was an afterthought. 

Keith shook his head softly trying to get the name out of his head as looked around the store, trying to find something to fit the bouquet he was making—trying not to let his own bias influence his choices. It was easy though, Keith thought, looking between the shelves at the old man who had taken to sitting on the wooden stool Keith had set for him by the counter. It was easy to pick out the first of the flowers, and with a determined glance, he moved towards the deep violet purple tucked into the corner. 

The heliotrope. 

They were perfect, Keith thought, fingers petting the swollen curve of the small flowers, their blooms woven together in a thick cluster of grape wine petals, heart left dark. Fifty years, hand in hand - to Keith’s young mind - seemed _eternal_ ; he couldn’t see himself so in love with someone to spend his entire life pressed into them—to spend day in and out tucked into someone’s embrace seemed unreal, and a companionship like that - one spanning over almost four times his current age, was unreal. Without a moment of hesitation, he pulled out four stems of the flower, pressing them into his gloved palm before moving on. 

In the back of his mind, Keith decided on a theme: cool colors. Purples and blues as the center pieces—and, although it was subconscious, he walked past the yellow, red-tipped roses and the sunshine gerbera daisies without an ounce of hesitation. There was no possible way he was adding that color anywhere near the wrap, even if their meanings fit. Keith was no good at bouquets, he found - too preoccupied with the meaning of each flower and his own emotions to bother with what colors matched and which didn’t. The aesthetics were Shiro’s domain. Keith tended to stick to singular color schemes - safe and beautiful - and very much the approach he’d taken with Lance. Despite his hesitation at first, the thought didn’t deter Keith from wanting to make this man’s bouquet. 

He walked down the wooden shelves, eyes scanning leisurely at the hung plants and set flowers, an ease to his flow, before halting in front of the yarrow. 

Leaning down, he pulled on the white flower’s neck, tugging the pretty cluster upward, it’s bloom-riddled head swaying lightly as he pined it against the purple of the heliotrope. He supposed it was redundant, placing a flower that meant everlasting love by one that stood for eternal love—they even looked a little strange, small flower heads falling against each other in a dense knot. _Individuals_ , he thought, _I need individual flowers_. 

Keith’s eyes brightened—he wanted a crocus. 

It was the perfect symbol of youth, the image of its bracketed petals falling easily into the forefront of his mind, striped with the blue gradient of a vibrant plum, almost neon in their beauty. It’s slender heart rose in a bright orange, vivid and warm against the cold color spectrum. He smiled, turning on his heel, a slight skip in his step as he back walked down the isle the way he came, stopping where he knew he’d find the flowers. He picked out three stems and rearranged the bouquet to make it more cohesive. _Looking good,_ Keith cocked his head, _one more._

He needed a more white; a gentle smile made it onto his features, _daisies_. Keith had a love hate relationship with the flowers, because of their simplicity, and their yellow heart, and the fact that Lance had liked them the most. Innocence, _hope_ —he swallowed the lump that clotted his throat, and reached a little higher on the same shelf, the hung woven basket overflowing with the delicate flowers. He pulled out a couple of stems and greens before finishing up the bouquet with a forcibly light heart and pretty ribbons. _Put on a fucking smile Keith, damn it._

The old man grinned at him when he came back, still seated and patient, both palms rested on the top of the cane. “Ah, you’re back!”

“Uh,” Keith scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, the other clutching the flowers, “yeah, I am.”

The man looks down at the flowers, pleasantly surprised, “Strange set of choices you got there. I don’t think I’ve seen a bouquet quite like this before.”

“Sorry?” Keith winced, small and slight, before holding it out for the man sheepishly, “Here, sir, you can - uh - take a look. If it doesn’t suit your tastes, I can make another one?”

“I never said I didn’t like it. In fact, I think I like it very much,” the man chuckled, an old, congenial sound that confused Keith a little, “despite how odd it looks.” 

He cocked his head; he didn’t get whether or not the man genuinely meant it or not, and he didn’t want to sell him something he disliked, especially for an occasion like this. “Are you sure, sir?”

“Positive,” was the seasoned reply, a knowing smile playing on elderly features. He reached out with a bony hand, veins wrapped in shades of blue between his fingers, and took the flowers out of Keith’s grasp. “You took quite a long time back there, you know - for a set of four flowers.”

Keith’s expression took on a shade of mild confusion, “I did?”

“About twenty minutes, if I’m being kind,” the man laughed again, and made no show of getting up. “Distracted, young man?”

His open mouth clicked closed. Keith didn’t know how to respond to the question, because he _was_ a little distracted - not that he’d noticed it sink into his actions; hell, he thought he’d been prompt and efficient. Not knowing what to say, he opted for staying silent, a small guilty expression holding his features hostage. He looked down at his espadrilles, more focused on their dyed beige that the man’s shrewd stare.

When it was apparent that Keith didn’t have an answer, the man continued. “You know, there’s a dutch saying, it claims that not responding to a direct question means you agree with the implied answer _.”_ There was a cocky, yet flippant tone to his voice. “What could possibly distract a boy your age, I wonder. School?”

Keith couldn’t help the insolent scoff that escaped him; school was the least of his concerns. Realizing what he’d done, Keith looked up, semi-apologetic. “Sorry. Uh, no. It isn’t school.”

“A pretty girl, perhaps?” Keith’s wince deepened in correlation with the man’s smile.

He said nothing.

The man hummed in faux contemplation, a smile on his lips. “A boy, maybe, then?”

Keith sighed, eyes closing a little, before opening with a stiff nod, “Yeah. It’s—he’s—a boy.”

It was an awkward exchange for him, not only because of the fact he was discussing Lance with someone other than Shiro—but because he hadn’t anticipated this flippant, almost nonchalant acceptance of his sexuality by a docile-looking old man. Either Keith radiated homosexuality, or the man was very observant—in either case, it made him a little uncomfortable thinking about it. The man had just given him a calculative once-over, before sighing happily. “It’s good to be in love.”

“I’m not in love.” The lie was automatic.

The man gave a hearty laugh, looking down at the bouquet, picking at the blues and purples with the tips of his aging fingers. “My question wasn’t blind guessing. There’s a certain sadness that comes with love, boy. And you look very sad.”

Keith frowned in mild hurt. _He wasn’t sad_ —today had been a _good_ day, he’d been trying to get over Lance at his own pace—he was doing a good job with his drinking and his laundry and his job. _Keith wasn’t sad._ “I’m not—I _don’t_.”

“The most painful sadness is the one you can feel but never admit,” the man smiled, finally getting up from his seat, “it’s called heartbreak.”

Keith hadn’t moved from his spot, staring at the floorboards with vacant fixation. The man left a bill far too large on the counter top before walking out of the shop, cane in hand and a brisk click to his step. If Keith hadn’t known any better, his eyes still downward cast, he would’ve thought it was a young man’s footsteps that followed.

* * *

 

The day was coming to a close, and he hadn’t had many customers save that one old man. It wasn’t that Keith heard something he didn’t want to hear, or something he didn’t know he felt. It wasn’t some revelation that unfolded that afternoon. He knew everything about his emotions, even when the old man had spelt it out. Knowing hadn’t stopped him from thinking about it all day, though. Keith heaved in a long, agonizing breath, broom in hand as he swept the paneled flooring, brush scraping softly against the wood. 

The light of the evening sun flitted into the room, casting long shadows and longer streaks of light across the plant riddled room, their colors vibrant in the saturated glow. The flowers had all bloomed by then, brought from the back room into the shadow of the frontal windowpane, their spring pastels calming and pale in contrast to their rosewood cradles, wooden handwoven baskets. The musky smell of dirt and jasmine remained, though Keith could place all the other scents that broke into the small space, from the waft of sandalwood to the faint but fruity daphne odora. It was a calming space, and he was glad to have it to himself, even if it was his turn to sweep. 

Allura and Shiro had finished off the last of their orders - all of which Shiro was tasked with delivering - and had gone home. Keith hadn’t minded, in fact, he found that he preferred being alone, especially in the evenings. Initially, it had been to read, _not anymore,_ he thought sardonically, _now it’s to think about my fuck ups_. 

Keith didn’t hum as he swept, or dance, or do any other romanticized gesture that might have made clearing the shop more fun; the solitude was more pleasant without any noise save the occasional cyclist or vespa that tore across the street, and part of Keith just wanted to sweep slowly and enjoy it before he had to go home; going home meant another evening of tedium and unwanted thoughts. He finished the sweeping the filth from the final corner of the store, before setting the broom aside, resting it against the wall. Keith let his eyes scan over the space of the shop as he dusted his hands off; it was a job well done, even if the store was not that dirty to begin with—Allura was a little mental about the hygiene of the area, despite having had it closed off for nearly ten years. It had been her father’s store, one she’d only gotten the right to touch recently. 

Keith tucked his lips as he walked forward towards the desk, taking off the gardening flowers. He folded them and placed them on the shelf by Red—beside his glazed clay-tea mug and a small pile of three books, one of which Lance had given him. The routine usually saw Keith giving Lance his paperbacks, but it was on one occasion that Lance had brought him a copy of his own. It was an astrology book, about sun signs and zodiacs, its cover a deep blue, lined with green curves and circular stars. Keith had once looked at him curiously; the last thing he’d expected from an _astronomy_ major was a book like _this_. Lance had shrugged him off with a _‘you’d be surprised’_.

With a small smile, he shook his head, picking up the book and turning it in his hands. It was a ratty thing, its binding falling apart, the papers stained with coffee, yellowed with age. It hadn’t taken much to guess that Lance must have read the book often, the edges split and bent. They were things like this, Keith supposed, that made the asshole as endearing as he was. It was the idiotic passion Lance had for the strangest things—from the zodiacs to those conspiracy theories of his. He would never admit it, but those theories were Keith’s favorite conversations. His smile fell gradually into a neutral expression, before he set the book face down under the others, hiding it from view, save the torn spine. He hadn’t read it yet.

The door chimed, slow and hesitant, with the creek of the floorboards. 

Keith felt his shoulders stiffen at the sound, his body having been facing away from the entrance. He had forgotten to lock the door, not that he needed to, being inside and all—but he was almost certain he’d turned the sign to _closed_ the moment Allura had handed him the keys on her way out. There was no one dumb enough to walk into a flower shop at seven in the evening and expect service, and although he wanted to spit that snarky reply into the person’s face, Keith restrained himself.He huffed, turning on his heel, “We’re close—” 

His voice fell quiet, croaked and strained at the bottom of his throat—because there, in all his flipped snapback, sheepish glory, was Lance. 

He felt something in his chest stutter, eyes trailing the broad width of Lance’s shoulders under the navy crew-neck to the awkward, forward lean of his body, a lean that left his feet hesitant in grey hightops. It was nothing like what Keith thought it would feel like—there was no difficulty breathing, no ache in his heart—just a warm but bitter feeling that laced his body, eyes blinking slowly in an attempt to register what he was seeing. _Why is he here,_ Lance gave him a tentative two finger wave, _and why now?_

The door clicked to a close. 

Keith swallowed, his stance a little cautious, “We’re closed.”

“Uh, yeah.” Lance walked in, still reluctant but doing his best to stand straight. He thumbed at the straps of his backpack, and all Keith wanted to do was walk past him and leave the shop; he didn’t. “I just—I need to—” he sighed, seemingly exasperated with himself as he looked off to the side, a hand coming up to knead at the back of his neck.

Keith held his tongue, watching with vigilant hostility. His expression was controlled, staring back at Lance from behind the counter, eyebrows drawn, corners raised. It didn’t take a genius to see the hesitance that was woven into Lance’s bones, from the bitten lip to the twitching nose—but Keith would be damned if he ever let his guard down again. It had, after all, taken one smile to send things to hell. “I would offer to help, _sir_ ,” Keith bit, his voice a scathing monotone, “but then again, we both know where my recommendations got us last time.”

He didn’t know how to feel when he saw Lance’s wince—slow to appear and slower to fade. Keith’s emotions felt tight, _tight_ and _angry_ and _simmering_ under his skin—and they did nothing but paint a passive, lidded glare onto his features. He didn’t want to throttle Lance, or hurt him, he just needed him to leave. Keith was getting over him - he was trying his best - and the last thing he’d needed that day was to have Lance show up—it was unexpected to say the least, because all Lance’s intentions were made clear enough, from the lack of response to the kiss, to the carnation that was left somewhere in between rocks. Keith felt his teeth grit, eyes looking back into the other’s yielding blue; Lance looked defeated. He looked so hurt and tired and apologetic, and Keith couldn’t help it when his expression followed close behind.

Despite that anger that still boiled his blood and set fire to his lungs, Keith was fucking _hurt_ and he was lonely and he was guilty and he wasn’t sure which one of them felt the worst. His fingers found his upper arm, tracing the smooth skin of his shoulder beneath the t-shirt sleeve, forearm wrapping protectively around his torso as he looked away. 

He heard Lance clear his throat. It was soft and genuine, “Can we talk?” 

Keith’s sulking expression darkened, still directed at the waterlilies floating in a small tank to his right. He knew it was irrational—that adamant refusal to deal with Lance. After all, Keith had done his fair share to get the situation where it is now, the least he could do was give the other some space to speak. He couldn’t help it though, that desire to get away and ignore this - inevitable - confrontation. Keith knew Lance would say _things,_ that would, in turn, make him _feel_ ; Lance would guilt him, or lecture him, or - may the goddess forbid - _forgive_ him—and the moment he did any of those things, Keith’s loner heart would break again. 

He didn’t answer. Lance sighed, unmoving. “We’re both pretty shitty people, aren’t we?”

Keith scoffed, shaking his head softly; he didn’t have a proper response to give. 

Lance tired again, “Listen, Keith,” his voice sounded firm, but still gentle in the way he spoke his name, “I’m sorry. I really am.”

_Oh yeah?_ was the reply he never gave, but Keith let his eyes fall to their corners, where they could observe the serious crease between Lance’s eyebrows and the stern set of his jaw. He’d never seen him like this, Lance was always linked to wide smiles and laugh lines. Keith let his arm fall, rolling his shoulders in a show of fake confidence. He crossed his arms, “For which part.” 

He could see the mildly irritated narrow of Lance’s eyes. It was a slight, barely noticeable if he wasn’t as apt as he was at studying Lance’s face, _staring at those freckles had done some good, apparently_. Before it could grow further, though, Lance reined it in with a patient sigh and a slow blink. “I meant it, by the way.”

Keith raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “What’s that?” 

“Beautiful.”

“ _What_?” he shook his head, confused and a little annoyed, “Can you _be_ any more cryptic—” 

“ _You_ , I mean.” Lance gave him a melancholy smile. There was nothing flirtatious about the way he said it, with that sad look on his face, shoulders sagging—no tongue in cheek banter, no pearl teeth to display and no curling smirks. It was genuine and Keith felt himself falter a bit, taken back by how forward Lance was being, his face falling into an unguarded gape. “You’re beautiful. I meant what I said that night.”

Keith swallowed, “You were drunk.”

“So were you,” he shrugged, “and sometimes people make mistakes when they are.”

“I thought you said you meant it?” Keith was quick to say, well aware that he was picking a fight for the sake of picking a fight. It was cathartic in a sense, a way to release his pent up frustrations, no mater how unorthodox. 

“I meant what I said.” Lance looked him in the eye, “Question is, did you mean what you did.”

Keith’s scoff was loud, lip curling into a sneer, “Which time, I seem to mess up a whole lot while drunk, apparently.”

“The kiss, Keith.” Lance went with the bitterness, and responded using nothing but civility. “Did you mean it.”

He didn’t receive a response, but Keith still looked him dead in the eye, unwavering. Lance closed his eyes and counted down from ten in his head, before letting his gaze settle on the other again, calmer and more controlled. He looked away, an exasperated laugh dancing on his breath, “God, Keith—I’m fucking _here_ , man. If you want me to go—” he turned back to him, expression exhausted, “I’ll leave.”

Keith didn’t give him a direct answer, but Lance figured the slight waver in his posture, and that hung jaw were enough of one. Lance smiled gently, walking forward with that same timidness he’d had stepping into the room just minutes before. It was completely uncharacteristic—nothing about a shy, hesitant Lance made sense in Keith’s mind. That didn’t matter, though, because the fact Lance was walking closer, made Keith feel a small bout of happiness that his reasoning tried to kill. This was a bad idea, because having this conversation and talking to Lance like this, brought back the feelings that had begun to fade away. _Goddess, you have to ruin everything, don’t you, Lance?_

“Talk to me, _please_.” Lance tried, thighs pressed against the wooden desk, the only thing left between them. “I know I messed up, I know that now. I’m not going to stand here and tell you that I didn’t mean to hurt you at the time, because I did—” Keith tried to look away, but Lance’s face followed, genuine and open and _fucking real_ in its vulnerability, “—but I don’t want it to end like _this_. You fucked me up with those flowers, man, and I guess I made it even worse by getting even, and I’m—”

“ _Gods_ ,” Keith breathed, hurt and a little overwhelmed, his own expression left distressed. He wasn’t accustomed to this sort of thing, and it terrified him; Lance was so expressive and emotional and at ease with what he felt—but Keith was lost, he always was, floundering in shallow water when it came to this stuff. He pushed Lance’s leaning form away by the shoulder, “What the _fuck_ , Lance? You rejected me— _twice_.” He gaped, completely incredulous, “You have a fucking _girlfriend_ \- what the hell are you doing here?”

“I didn’t _mean_ to reject you.”

“Do you even _know_ what those carnations are, or was the flower chart wasted on you?” he hissed. 

Lance’s patience, thin by nature, was wearing thinner, with exasperated hurt lacing every syllable, “I don’t know, _Keith_ , care to define them? After all, you gave me a fucking _dozen_.”

Keith’s wince contorted his entire face, anger dying on the tip of his tongue. Lance was _right_. Keith had messed up too. He heaved in a stuttering breath, mouth curling in a grimace. “Sorry.”

Lance frowned, looking a little regretful himself, “Yeah, me too. For that, uh, outburst as well. This wasn’t supposed to go like this, I—I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Yeah,” Keith bit his lip, “I didn’t either.”

They stood in silence, staring at each other as the sun touched the horizon, leaving the small room lit only by the vibrant orange that dyed the sky and the side of Lance’s long face. “You know,” he said finally, licking his lips, “I don’t have a girlfriend. Never did, apparently.”

That took Keith by surprise, his eyebrows drawing a thin, straight line above his eyes. He found himself craning his neck forward for emphasis, “ _What_?”

Lance shrugged, as though this was the most casual statement he could’ve thrown at Keith. “Well, she didn’t think of us as a couple—besides she ended it ages ago.”

“ _Ages_ ago? when?” Keith demanded, his voice disbelieving. Nyma, that same Nyma, who had caused all of this shit from start to finish, had been entirely oblivious. Keith couldn’t help but envy her a little, mostly for her ignorance and the fact she wasn’t to blame for most of what went down. While he felt a little bad for Lance, part of him was selfishly glad that he was no longer with her; Lance may have been an asshole, but the way he spoke about her, like some sort of goddess—well, Keith had a feeling she didn’t know what exactly she had given up.

“Carnations day, I’m afraid.” Lance threw him a tight smile, but before that slow climbing look of hurt could completely consume Keith - that pouting mouth a brisk tongue curl away from an apology - Lance interrupted with a rolling palm, “It wasn’t the flowers, don’t worry.”

Keith didn’t look convinced, his fingertips finding the corner of his lips easily, eyebrows tight and guilty, “Gods, Lance. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Lance gave him a flippant laugh, before sighing. Keith couldn’t help but notice the sad note it carried, “Not the flowers, I promise. I guess I was a little too attached to someone who never stayed for breakfast.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I am,” Keith insisted, exhaling with a loud huff, both arms tying around his torso. Even though he had swore to himself he wouldn’t apologize, it felt so different with Lance a foot away from him, looking back at Keith with those Poseidon blue eyes. He had always made fun of Shiro for the way he held Allura on a pedestal, and although initially fueled by petty jealousy, he meant it: that lovesick daze was something that wouldn’t ever happen to him. But then Lance smiled, and everything went to shit—his head, his feelings, his fucking self-control. It was cheesy and embarrassing and painful all at once. “I really am sorry for that night, Lance,” he pressed his lips together, “Whether they did anything or not.”

Lance patted the top of his own head, pressing on the snapback he wore, not knowing what else to do with his hands. “Yeah, well it doesn’t matter now,” he shrugged, turning back to smile at Keith, hands dropping to his sides, “‘cause we’re both here now, right? Together.”

“I don’t—” Keith shook his head, hating how that sounded coming from Lance and how it made him feel. He didn’t want the false hope, he didn’t want _any_ of it. “I just don’t _get_ you, _fuck_ —fuck this, fuck _me_.”

“Keith—”

“ _No_ , you’ve said your part!” Keith snapped interrupting, running his fingers into his hair, looking around helplessly. His palms came up to knead at his face, pausing to look at nothing in particular, before turning back to Lance, “Gods, what do you _expect_ from me Lance—what do you want?” Keith’s voice cracked slightly, “if she dumped you then why the hell’ve you been _coming back_ —why the hell do you put me through this every _fucking_ time? Why were you buying the flowers, Lance—was this _all_ for shits and giggles?” he paused, panting, the sentence having come out in a single breath. “ _Did you fuck with me?_ ”

“I bought them,” Lance articulated, patient smile in place, “because it made you happy when I did.”

Keith’s eyes pressed closed, an exasperated groan leaving him. The gentle _‘what do you want from me’_ was muffled by hands cupping over his mouth, long fingers pressing into an elven nose. Keith looked at him, tired, “Did you want another flower, then, or something? Why’re you _here_?”

Lance grimaced, looking a little worried, “Uh, no—actually. I thought it was my turn to - uh - give _you_ something, for a change.” 

Keith let his palms drop, expression a little guarded. It was the first time he noticed how out of place Lance looked in the shop; it had always felt like he was part of it, or maybe that was habit speaking, but it was true—Keith never questioned how Lance toed at the ground uncomfortably, or looked so intense and vibrant amongst calming pastels. Keith blinked, noticing how stark the difference had become between the dull brown wood and Lance’s naturally dynamic aura, eyes wandering as the other shuffled. He watched, uncommenting, as Lance brought his backpack to the front, a clumsy, trembling set of hands working to tug the zipper.

In all honestly, Keith didn’t know what to expect, especially when it came to Lance—not now, anyway. After all, Shiro had told him that Lance needed to ‘ _cool off_ ’, that he would ‘ _come around_ ’—but in no way had Keith actually believed him. But there he was, standing a foot or two away from a cursing Lance, who had _apologized_ of all things. 

With a soft ‘ _aha_!’, Lance looked up from the bag, arms still hidden elbow deep. He bit his lip, holding Keith’s cautious stare for a moment or so, “So, uh - close your eyes?”

“Lance, don’t make this weird.”

“God above,” he huffed, “do you _have_ to be difficult? Just _do_ it. And, like, hold your hand out.” 

With a pointed glare, Keith let his eyes slip closed, his arms hesitant at first before he felt Lance’s fingers wrap around his wrists and pull them further; Keith let him, but not without a brief, irritated mumble. He could only hear the soft folding of canvas - Lance’s bag dropping he guessed - before a pause. It was a long moment, one that stretched enough to have him contemplate opening his eyes, but before he could call Lance out on his bullshit, Keith felt the soft brush of fingers on his own, a curved, smooth bowl weighing itself into his hands. His breath caught, and he heard Lance swallow, hands drawn away. “Okay, open them.”

Keith didn’t hesitate, his eyes flicking open to stare directly at Lance, who seemed impossibly closer, before letting his gaze fall steadily to the soft porcelain in his palms—

—and both his heart and body stuttered at the sight. 

It was plump, the plant—a beautiful thing, with its wide, flat and _impossibly blue_ peaks— _a mature echeveria._ Keith felt his eyebrows tremble at the sight, letting his thumb trace over the lilancia’s silken curves, nails softly scraping its dusted grey and the vibrant nature of its dye—a rare sight. Keith felt himself lose control of his expression, that vulnerability returning with a vengeance—there was something about it that made him want to draw the thing into his chest and keep it there. Keith didn’t receive gifts often—though when he did, nothing had ever felt as _heartbreaking_ as this. It was beautiful— _why is he giving me this?_

“Re—Red seemed a little lonely.” He saw Lance shrug hesitantly from his peripheral. “Thought she could use some company.”

“ _Fuck_ , Lance.” Keith breathed as he looked up at Lance, his expression near broken. He fell silent for a moment, trying to find a breathing pattern that worked. “Yeah,” he relented with a swallow, looking over his shoulder at the ruby  agavoides romeo. “Red’s been lonely.” 

They were both aware of the symbolism that tied itself to the ends of the exchange, and Keith could see the pride rise in Lance’s shoulders from the corner of his eye, watching as he leant in over the desk. Lance’s palm found his neck easily, cradling it against those warm tips, turning Keith towards him—and the other, for once, didn’t turn him away. Keith let out a small, dry sob, leaning into the touch, “Goddess, what do you _want_ from me.”

“Let me take you out.” Lance hadn’t missed a beat. “Out of this flower shop, out of town, you name it—just—” he pressed his forehead into Keith’s, “ _anywhere_ , with you.”

Keith let their breaths braid into each other, this time so much more pure and clear and _warm_ than the last. It was a strange feeling, standing there, a finger’s width from Lance’s lips—with every slashed blue mark in his eyes, and every dark blemish that tipped his cheeks accentuated by the folded light of a setting sun. There was something almost godly about how beautiful Lance was, and Keith—who once prided himself on solitude and silence—couldn’t help but fall into the boisterous wave of emotion that came with the smell of Lance cologne. It seemed, he was just as soft and tender around the edges as his blue plant was. _Gods_ , Keith thought, a soft snort escaping him, _the bastard wants me, too?_

Lance remained unmoving on the other side of the desk, his nose lining the length of Keith’s own. He hummed, “What’s so funny?”

“You know cacti aren’t symbolic of romance, right?”

Lance cracked a smile, drawing back so only the tips of their noses brushed. Keith thanked every god to have seen the gorgeous expression this close, “She’s not a cactus; she’s a _succulent_.”

“Oh, yeah?” Keith teased softly, a little disbelieving—he didn’t know what to feel, the entirety of it seemingly unreal. But he couldn’t help it—he was fucking _forgiven_ , and reason was thrown to the wind, because he forgave Lance as well. He wanted this—he’d always wanted this, to have Lance so close, staring at _him_ like that. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it does,” Lance chuckled, breath warm on Keith’s face, thumb stroking his neck. “Didn’t you hear? She’s an _echeveria._ A pretty florist told me.”

Keith tried to tame his smile into a smirk, “He sounds like a drag.”

“Oh, he is.”

“ _Fuck_ you—” Keith laughed - an almost cathartic sound for both of them - pulling back from the semi-embrace, the succulent still tight in his arms; he turned away to place it on the high shelf, beside the books that pedestaled Red. Lance stared at the back of his head, a gentle smile playing on his lips—he had dragged Pidge everywhere for that small plant, and that brief look of absolute appreciation on Keith’s face was worth every second of abuse he’d received for it. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been waiting to hear Keith’s laugh again until he’d heard it—the melodic little sound that made his entire body flush pleasantly. _He’s beautiful._

_“Besides,”_ Keith turned to him, his voice a little chastising, but the playful jut of his hip and the slight smile he beat down told another story, “Mr. Roses-are- _so_ -expensive-I’m-going-broke, wants to take me out to dinner?”

“Oi,” Lance faked offense, leaning back to cross his arms, “Some Star Trek and good ramen sounded like a sexy, _sexy_ date to me.”

Keith smirked, those plump lips curling, and Lance could’ve sworn it was the single hottest thing he’d ever seen—before Keith had hopped onto the desk with brisk agility, hips rolling before he sat, legs wide open with his palms rested on the lip of the counter between the firm swell of his thighs. Even under the loose fabric of his pants, Lance could almost outline the break of muscle he’d come to know so well, calves dangling.

“Sexy date, huh?” Keith leant forward challengingly, his voice a lazy drawl.

Lance’s smirk widened gradually, “Pray tell, you got any objections?”

With speed Lance didn’t know he had, Keith slammed one open palm into his chest, lean fingers fisting at the fabric of his pullover to tug him impossibly close—their chests brushing, every line of split magenta in Keith’s lips driving Lance insane. He felt those thighs, steady and strong on either side of him, and the heated smile that climbed across his features was enough of a hint that he enjoyed it. Keith’s hair brushed against his forehead, and his words against his lips, “Make it Star Wars and take out, and you have yourself a date.”

Lance clicked his tongue, tutting softly before letting both palms fall onto the rise of Keith’s legs, slipping under - between them and the desk - to pull him closer. He took a certain pride in the sharp inhale he received, and the way Keith’s calves naturally locked at the small of his back. 

“What can I say,” Lance breathed, watching that almost drunken flush slip onto Keith’s features, the confidence he had once radiated falling into that tentative glance down at Lance’s lips, and back up. Even his eyes, usually a fickle kaleidoscope, had faded into a dark grey violet, and Lance felt his own impatience draw to a close. He brushed their lips, “You have horrible taste, sweetheart.” 

Long lashes were sharp against Lance’s cheek, just like everything else about Keith—his plants, his tongue, his mind, and even the angled rise of his collarbone was keen enough to cut through diamond.  The kiss was everything Lance expected out of Keith—rough and eager, and beautiful all at once—hands flitting under his hat to forcefully shove it off and tug him closer. Their bodies folded into each other with natural ease, Lance’s hands wrapping around sculpted calves to pull Keith into him, basking in that musky scent of jasmine and books— _intoxicating._

That night, Lance learnt that Keith smiles largest against his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> congrats, they finally made out 
> 
> i'm probably going to come back to edit the hell out of this, because this was not how it played out in my head - also, i'm suffering a migraine so i wasn't able to proofread this either hahah i pumped it out and posted it, right out of the oven - feel free to point out typos and run-ons
> 
> as always, the [ art](http://venpast.tumblr.com/tagged/ofts+art) for this fic is amazing and so are all of you.
> 
>  
> 
> [ my tumblr](http://venpast.tumblr.com/)


	11. cheap tobacco and constellations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here she is, at 10k - the epilogue! feel free to point out any typos/anything that confused you 
> 
> see you down under

  
  
[that same night; 21:03]   
  


> [21:04]: hey lance piiiick up
> 
> [21:06]: laaaaaaance
> 
> [21:06]: okay i assume youre busy, lover boy, so ill just
> 
> [21:07]: idk leave you a message:
> 
> [21:09]: i talked to hunk and i think hes right about a couple of things, i think i was a little too harsh on you. that wasnt fair… i didnt handle it well i guess. i was worried and i took it out on you which wasnt cool. that isnt what friends are supposed to do huh haha theyre meant to be understanding. so
> 
> [21:09]: yeah so i thought id say sorry and stuff too
> 
> [21:10]: this would be infinitely easier if you would just pick up but ALAS IM IGNORED haaa tell keith i said hi
> 
> [21:11]: rover says hi too. as well as a dog can say hi anyway
> 
> [21:12]: okay okay ill go but i guess well talk in person tomorrow 
> 
> [21:12]: …good luck lance…you actually deserve this one :)

* * *

  
[a summer night in late august; 00:53]

 

That night was no different than any other drunken karaoke outing at Hunk’s, with Lance bleating to his trashy music, and Keith getting all of the lyrics wrong, too drunk to think about it. _It’s tradition,_ Lance had told him, guzzling an indecent amount of beer, _even Pidget a capella-s the fuck out on karaoke night._ Keith had just laughed and gone along with it—because they were _young_ , and this was _fun_. More fun than he’d ever had. Even Shiro in the background, looking on with pained amusement, couldn’t bring Keith down from his high—because _Shiro was there with him_ , and so was _Lance_ —and hell, even Allura, who had taken the glass of orange juice out of her fiancé’s hand, and replaced it with wineglass instead. _‘Live a little, darling!’_

Keith, although introverted by nature, loved it. 

Hunk had only shooed Keith and Lance out when they’d started kissing, and given the playful smile thrown his way, Keith’s figured neither of them really minded. It had been a tipsy walk back, full of pushing and shoving and playful hair ruffling that left Keith mumbling under breath. When they’d finally made it to his door, Lance had looked at him in that undeniably stupid way, with that small genuine smile, his head cocked to the side as he pressed his lips against Keith’s forehead. It made Keith close his eyes for a moment, before shoving Lance into the apartment with loose limbs. 

The door slammed shut to the sound of their drunken giggles, the noise pressed between their lips, fingers tracing wrists and napes. They were both too tired to do much other than stand on the other side, bodies modeled as they laughed, feeling stupid and wasted. The summer evening was dark and warm, broken only by the dim streetlight that tore through Keith’s curtains and colored the side of Lance’s angular profile. It had been a good night, even if it saw them both kicked out of Hunk’s apartment with a smile and a swift pat on the back. After all, Keith knew how they got, with their sharp, drunken banter and their subconsciously affectionate touches. 

Some would argue those two things described two entirely different relationships, but with Lance’s lips at the corner of his own, Keith would beg to differ. It was just how it _was_ between them - all curse-words and kisses, he supposed, since the moment begun weeks before. 

Lance wrapped his arms around Keith’s waist completely, elbows tucked against the lean narrowing of the man’s torso. He pressed little chuckles into the break of Keith’s shoulder, before looking up. “Your hair smells good.”

Keith laughed, not exactly sure what it was he was laughing at, pressing both palms to either side of Lance’s face, feeling the flushed skin under his thumbs. Even with the rich tan that lined every inch of Lance, from his ankles to the tip of his nose, Keith could still mark that faint red that swam in his cheeks - and he had no doubt that his own pale skin had betrayed him long before. Their bodies swayed lightly, “Thanks, spaceman.”

“Ye—yeah,” Lance floundered for a moment, nose an inch from Keith’s. “Fuck,” he laughed, loud and lost, “no problem.”

“You’re a mess,” Keith joined him, completely ruined by the alcohol. He leant forward, lining the length of Lance’s nose with his own, breathing out a sigh against his lips. “Fuck it— _I’m_ a mess.”

Lance’s mouth quirked. “No arguing with you there.”

“Fuck _up_ ,” Keith snorted, running his thumb across Lance’s lower lip, “you _prick_.”

Clicking his tongue, Lance drew him in closer, pressing their foreheads together. His smile was smug, stretching across his features lopsidedly, eyebrows low and teasing. “It’s either fuck _off_ , or _shut_ up, sweetheart—there isn’t much way for creativity in that department.”

Keith gave a deep, obnoxious ‘ _ha ha_ ’, patting Lance twice on the face before pushing against him, shoulders leaning off the door. It was sloppy, the way his body stuttered towards the open plan kitchenette. He sighed contently, “I need water.”

Lance hadn’t let him get far, bounding forward to grab his wrist, tugging him back. Keith’s angular shoulders hit his chest with a soft thud, “Nah - what _you_ need, are a bunch gross nicknames and really intrusive cuddling, you grump.”

Keith snorted, falling into the embrace easily; he swallowed drunkenly with fluttering eyes. Keith found himself reaching back to tie Lance’s arms around himself,“ _Oh please_ , don’t project your shitty desires onto me.”

Lance hadn’t responded with anything save a rich laugh, soft in every way, whispered against the shell of Keith’s ear. It made him flush a little more than the alcohol itself, because there was something about how genuine Lance was by nature that made Keith fall apart. He heard the gentle chuckles die down, Lance’s breath breaking against his neck. Neither moved for the longest time, savoring the warmth of the embrace, not caring that the night was humid and the air was still. Lance was the first to break the silence. 

“Good night?”

“Yeah,” Keith hummed, his voice a little hoarse, “it was.”

“Mhm, that’s good.” Lance’s words were a tender mumble, lips brushing against his pulse. Keith felt fingers trail up from his waist to timidly touch his elbow, falling onto the underside of his arm. Lance’s faint tips found the inside of his wrist before wrapping around it, thumb pressing small circles against the small, monochrome Saturn that was tucked between the tendons. Keith’s eyes slowly opened, his head turning, forehead rested against Lance’s temple. 

“What’re you doing?” he asked, watching how Lance’s eyes looked down over his shoulder down at the small tattoo.

There was no immediate answer, and after a moment or two Lance brought the wrist up to his mouth to press a steady kiss onto it. Keith felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, suddenly hyperaware of how his back traced every sharp line of Lance’s chest, and how their bodies seemed to lock in all the right places, at all the right angles. He didn’t dare breathe, nuzzling his forehead against Lance’s hair, his eyes closed—this was so serene, so simple and easy. Being with _Lance_ was simple and easy, because every single one of his small gestures was a world of affection all on its own. Keith couldn’t say he was used to it just yet, but he most definitely didn’t mind it.

A puffed chuckle against his wrist made Keith open his eyes, lidded and curious. _Gods_ , that laugh drove him crazy, both on the days where it was loud and boisterous and obnoxious in every which way, and on those where it was a silent breath of amusement. Keith couldn’t help it; taking his wrist from Lance’s grip, he cupped the mans face and planted a gentle, full-lipped kiss on the crescent of his cheekbone. It wasn’t like they weren’t affectionate by nature, but there were moments like these where it was just so _easy_ to convey emotions.

It surprised Keith at first, though - the sheer amount of innocent gestures that riddled their relationship, most of which were completely subconscious. From Lance kissing his neck as he spoke to someone, to Keith grabbing the hem of Lance’s sleeve when they walked, everything felt a little unreal, and wholly unexpected. It was a pleasant surprise. 

Keith’s lips fell away with a gentle sound, before he drew back entirely. He turned to stand in front of Lance, whose face looked flushed from the heat, a glistening sheen beaded along his skin, eyes lidded. His expression was tranquil and sated, something Lance didn’t express too often, being as loud as he was. Keith didn’t know whether it was his own wishful thinking or not, but Lance looked happy. 

“Something on your mind?” Keith found his mouth curling into a tentative smile, before leaning forward to whisper the words against Lance’s lips; he wasn’t aware just how often and out of character his smiles had become. 

“You.” There wasn’t a breath of hesitation to precede Lance’s response. 

Keith gave him a low chuckle, “Smooth.”

Lance’s expression hadn’t changed from that serious, serene press of the lips. “I really like you. _Really_ , really.”

Keith hadn’t necessarily begun to sober up, so he couldn’t help but be a little amused. It was a very childish confession, but for some reason, Lance convinced him that those where the best kind. Keith whispered back, moving to stand a little closer, allowing their chests to brush as he looked up, “I like you, too.”

“I might—” Lance’s voice rasped, his free hand came up to brush onyx bangs from Keith’s forehead, leaning his own against it, “—might love you, _kinda_. A little.”

“How unfortunate,” Keith’s smile widened; neither of them needed a verbal response when his fingers traced the seam of Lance’s sleeve up along his neck, and over the curve of his ear, his touch tender against Lance’s lower-lash line. 

Wetting his lips, Lance keenly observed the look of wonder on Keith’s face, how those grey eyes followed his own pale fingers. Keith chased the terrain of features - a landscape that saw sharp highs and lows - before letting his palm cup Lance’s jaw. Lance didn’t miss the way Keith stared at his mouth, and it gave him all the drunken confidence he needed to grab those unbelievably narrow hips, tugging that body sharply into his own.

Keith followed, loose and accepting, his other hand finding Lance’s neck. He leant in when their bodies stilled, lips brushing tentatively over Lance’s. It always begun like this, no matter how heated things got, no matter how rough and angry they could be, there was always a moment of questioning hesitation that went into every kiss. Lance’s didn’t let it last too long, his head tilting to fit their lips against each other.

It was lax and slow, the hurry absent from their movements. Keith’s jutting hipbones felt fragile under his fingers, sharp and pronounced—but Lance knew the man was anything but delicate, and the hand that slid back to tug at his hair was enough evidence. He felt his breath catch, the only sounds between them were sharp inhales and muttered curse words, Keith’s lips rounded and full, supple in their movements. It was by no means a sober experience, with kisses landing haphazardly over smiles and mouth corners; Lance found that he liked it better like that. 

There was no such thing as a perfect kiss, and it hadn’t mattered—because _this_ was affection, and this was _absolution_. And even when the damp exchange had folded into a reassuring press of the lips -one that left a dull pain in their gums and an ache in their teeth, noses pressed to cheeks - Lance felt his heart burn as he slowly fell in love all over again. The meaning behind such a routine kiss, he found, rung louder than the inhales they took through their noses. 

Maybe it was the beer talking, or maybe it was Lance being high off his ass on the pretty smile Keith gave him when they pulled apart. 

Keith’s palms cradled Lance’s face, as an uncharacteristic bubble of laugher escaped him. “Yeah, how _very_ fucking unfortunate.”

“Shut up.” Lance’s scoffed playfully, fingers still tight around Keith’s hips. He swallowed past his smile, holding the silence for a minute or two before breaking it. “You know, I wanted a Jupiter tattoo for the longest time.”

“Yeah?” Keith’s brows furrowed. He idly reached up to retrace the contours of Lance’s face with his fingers, unaware he was doing it. Lance let him; it was something Keith tended to do when he was drunk or feeling particularly affectionate. It was most likely subconscious, and it made his chest ache pleasantly. “Why do you want a bearded man on you forever?”

He grabbed Keith’s wrist, halting it midair. 

“Please tell me this is you being drunk,” he deadpanned, “Please tell me this is not you being serious.”

Keith’s eyes blinked back at him, wide and innocent, “It was a legitimate quest—”

“The _planet_ , Keifer,” Lance shook his head, a small snort escaping him. “The _planet_ , sweetheart.”

“Oh,” Keith’s expression fell into faint realization, hand still captive. “Oh, fuck. That makes more sense.”

“Dear _god_.” Lance’s laugh was silent, head falling onto Keith’s shoulder. It never got old how _dumb_ Keith could get at times, especially since his wit was normally pretty damn sharp. Lance looked up at him with an affectionate smile, “You’re lucky I don’t need it anymore.”

“The tattoo?” frowning, Keith cocked his head. “Why not?”

“Well, Jupiter’s this big-ass planet, right?” Lance drew back from Keith, dropping his wrist. He tucked both palms into the back pockets of his jeans, shrugging. His mind had begun to sober. “Largest mass, strongest gravitational pull, and all that jazz. Jupiter saves our solar system from destruction every fucking moment—” he heaves in a sigh, “I don’t know. I thought having it by my ankle would keep me realistic, you know? Save me—or like. I could, maybe— _fuck_ —” he laughed nervously, but Keith just stared at him, listening, “Maybe _I_ could help save someone. I thought it would ground me.”

Keith stayed silent for a moment, and responded when he realized Lance had said his part and was looking at him expectantly. “Why did you change your mind?”

“Well,” Lance gave a one shouldered shrug, palming the back of his neck, “I think I’ve found something else to ground me.”

Keith was not drunk or dense enough to miss that note of affection that wove itself into the statement. He silently placed a palm on Lance’s cheek, his own face held in flushed indifference, serious and straight. He let his hand drop from cheek to shoulder, to wrist, before he dragged Lance towards his bedroom. 

_You’re so beautiful, Lance._

* * *

  
[02:41AM]

 

They sat silent in bed, their skin bare, bodies exhausted and aching in all the right places. The room was silent, save their steady breathing, the smell of cigarettes filling the narrow room. Keith laid flat on his stomach, elbows folded beneath his head, warmth radiating across the short distance between the both of them. He watched as Lance tilted his head back, body upright as he heaved breaths off a dying cigarette. His knee was bent high, wrist rested onto it, the slender cancer stick cradled between two fingers. 

Keith noted that Lance only ever smoked after they sleep together; Lance called it his ‘ _steady decline from euphoria_ ’—something to ease his mind back down from the rush. 

Although it was a filthy habit, Keith couldn’t help but _look_ at Lance while he smoked—tracing how ethereal and wild he appeared, a sheen of sweat still fresh on his deep alabaster skin, dark in contrast to the white sheets that pooled in his lap, folds wide in areas and tight in others. Lance looked nothing short of a modern god, with his lidded, electric eyes, to his bruised lips, to the opaque smoke that fountained out of his nostrils and bled from his mouth. If Lance wasn’t as kind a lover as he was, Keith would’ve called him Poseidon. 

Taking in a breath, he turned away from the sight, twisting his head to the side. His eyes lined up with a water bottle sitting by the mattress bed, soaking into the scattered flower art and inked pages it was put over. Reaching past it easily, his muscles aching pleasantly, Keith grabbed the half-empty ballpoint pen, rolling onto his back to stare up at Lance again; Lance blew a line of braided tobacco breath into his hair, humming. It was a deep rumble in the back of his throat, a little hoarse, thick with satisfaction. 

Keith closed his eyes for only a brief moment, before reopening them again and pushing himself upright. He reached forward and cupped Lance’s ankle with a cold palm; the hesitation was absent, but there was an anxious tremble to his fingers that had not gone unnoticed. Lance hummed again, now in question, his head cocked as he watched. 

They both watched as pen rolled against tendon, blue ink staining bronze skin.

“I guess, in a way,” Keith’s voice was raw and overused, mumbled into the side of Lance’s thigh, “you kind of saved me, too.”

He fell back when he was done, resting his head against Lance’s collarbone, hand reaching up to take the cigarette from between his lips. Keith brought it to his own mouth, inhaling a steady drag, letting the same grey seep out from between his lips, before leaning over to put it out against the windowsill. This time, Keith’s head cushioned itself against Lance’s stomach, arms thrown across his waist.

The Jupiter drawing was crooked and loose; it matched Keith’s Saturn perfectly.

* * *

  
The day after saw Lance at a tattoo parlor, leg outstretched, watching the artist trace over the curved blue lines of a shitty ballpoint pen.  
 

* * *

  
[a monday in september; 07:30AM]

 

He woke up to the incessant beeping of his incredibly _loud_ alarm, one he didn’t remember setting to begin with. It hadn’t taken him very long to reach over and paw at his phone, fingers trying their damnedest to disable the noise, blindly tapping at the lit screen. He groaned, turning on his side when he’d finally managed to silence it, his body facing the warmth curled up into against him. In all honesty, Lance really liked mornings—he liked breakfast, and eight hours of rest, and getting up feeling fresh and ready for a new day. 

But that didn’t count when it was a _planned_ morning, where he actually had _responsibilities_ —according to his phone, anyway. With another tired moan, he looked down at Keith, whose back was craned as he curled inward into himself, head rested on Lance’s upper arm. His hair was held back, a couple pins bringing his face to light, mouth parted, breathing softly against Lance’s skin. _Gods_ , Lance could get used to this—to waking up next to Keith, their bodies close and warm. This had become their life over the summer, already a couple of months into their relationship, and Lance loved every second of it—even with autumn rolling in.

He smiled and leant his head down, bopping their foreheads in a soft nuzzle, breathing in that smell of freshly cut cheery wood, still strong from the day before. Lance remembered how Allura dragged Keith along the day before to help her with one of the older trees she was asked to treat. His smile widened; he loved it—loved how Keith never used scented shampoo, or body wash, and ended up smelling like a field of flowers anyway. And gradually as the weeks passed, Lance found himself able to name all those different scents Keith came in carrying. From that typical honeysuckle, to his personal favorite, the pretty dianthus. 

Keith stirred in his sleep, head tilting upward towards Lance, tucking his nose into the sharp rise of a tan throat. Lance felt himself flush pleasantly at the pointed, frosty nose. Everything—from the way Keith’s marble legs wove around Lance’s own in their sleep, to the soft hum he’d give every now and then—served to remind Lance exactly how he felt for this man:

He _loved_ Keith. 

Not _liked_ , not _could love_ , but was genuinely, and thoroughly, and _absolutely_ in love with him. He found himself grinning, unoccupied arm making its way around the sleeping body to bring him closer, tucking Keith’s own palms between them—

—before the blearing noise of an alarm clock sounded. 

_Pain_. 

Lance was a victim in the mornings; a fucking _martyr_ to Keith’s bed hogging and sudden movements. As soon as the alarm bared its fangs, he had very much gotten a fist to the jaw, and an elbow across the neck, Keith’s body twisting to sit up. Lance groaned as he fell back, cradling his face with a stuttered series of ‘ _ow’_ s; Keith only stared down at him, grumpy as he kneaded one eye. He turned to the windowsill, disabling his small, antique looking alarm clock, clad in nothing but black boxer briefs and Lance’s grey crewneck. 

“Jesus, _quiznak_ , Keith,” Lance sobbed into his palm, his tone raw and winning, “You can’t cuddle to save your life—holy shit, _ow_. And can you please fucking _burn_ that ancient thing and buy yourself a _proper_ phone? _Christ_ —first the mullet and then this?”

“Don’t be a baby,” was the hoarse response, Keith’s voice naturally deep and even deeper with sleep. He craned down over Lance, removing his hand, “Show me.”

Lance pouted, letting Keith push his hold aside and replace it with his own, thumb stroking against a bruised jaw. Keith’s frown deepened, a gentle red lining his nose as he leant down and pressed a steady kiss to the corner of Lance’s mouth. It was soft, almost apologetic, lasting only a moment or so. Lance felt his chest warm quite a bit, his brain supplying him with worthless _cocky_ _intel_ instead of proper romantic gestures. _Makes sense._ His grin widening against Keith’s kiss, Lance tilted his head gently, pecking those lips as they pulled away. 

“All better,” he sung with a brief wink and quirky eyebrow raise, “thanks, babe.”

Keith rolled his eyes, unfazed as he fell onto his side by Lance, “How long have you been up?”

“Four and a half hours!” Lance said dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes, before making a show of shaking out the other one, “You have no idea how heavy your head is, I could barely move!”

“You’re such an asshole.” Keith smiled, hitting him on the bare shoulder. “ _I_ probably woke you up.”

“Fuck you,” Lance poked him in the side, putting an arm under his head, “ _I’m_ the one who gets up early.”

“Oh yeah?” Keith scoffed, a vibrant flicker of challenge in his eyes, playful, “It’s nothing you can prove.”

“I set my alarm first!”

“—and yet we both only heard _mine_.” Keith tutted with a smile, palm reaching out to pat Lance’s cheek. He _basked_ in that incredulous expression. “Such a fucking shame.”

“You’re such a piece of shit, oh my god. It’s not my fault you sleep like the dead—” Lance laughed, disbelieving, before rolling over to grab his phone, “—besides, grandpa, the best part of digital technology is that there’s always evidence—”

Keith shot up and snatched the phone out of his hand childishly, before sitting crosslegged over it, innocently looking back at Lance with his hands tucked in between his knees. “You were saying?”

“Oi,” Lance sputtered, trying to reach for it, only to be stopped by Keith’s palm on his chest. “Cheater.”

“Sore loser.”

“ _Me_? _I’m_ the sore loser? You’re sitting on my phone!”

Keith tried his best to keep his smile tight and hidden, but the closer Lance got to his face with that butthurt look of frustration, the more he found it difficult to keep a straight expression. Lance was, in his own right, the sort of relief Keith had always needed in his life. He was someone Keith could argue with about the stupidest things, someone to waste time with and laugh with—someone who made the weirdest breakfasts, and sung the strangest songs, and lived life at speeds Keith didn’t know he could reach. 

And looking at Lance now, weak glare and tousled hair, Keith couldn’t help but break into the widest smile. He grabbed either side of Lance’s face and pulled him into a kiss—miscoordinated and off. It didn’t matter though, because he felt a slow smile grow against his lips, Lance’s torso following forward. It was playful and fast, full of Lance’s gentle chuckles and his straying touches. Keith’s hands, though, stayed firmly against those cheeks, his fingers cold against the flushed warmth— _Lance’s_ warmth that radiated off his bare chest and the swell of his thighs under flannel pants. 

Keith broke away with swollen lips and a smile. “We even now, then?”

Lance made a contemplative humming noise in the back of his throat, his palms on Keith’s bare thighs. “Dunno.”

He unlocked Keith’s legs before tugging him onto his lap by the calves, ignoring the yelped ‘ _fuck_!’ he got in response. Lance laughed at the horrified expression on _his boyfriend’s_ features, so wide-eyed and beautiful, slender nose dyed cherry. Soon enough, Keith’s face changed into embarrassed irritation, turning his head to look sideways pointedly, arms crossed.

Lance breathed a chuckle, coming forward to peck away at the red that lined Keith’s neck. Which was more lewd, the noises, or the open-mouthed kisses, Keith had no idea. Lance spoke against his skin, “ _Fine,_ we’re _even_ , sweetheart.”

Keith turned back to him, eyebrow raised, “You’re the worst.”

He got a one shouldered shrug and a cocky smile as a response, Lance’s body shifting so he could cross his legs beneath Keith, fingers stroking the small of his back. “You’re pretty horrible yourself. But I fuckin’ love your salty ass, what can I say.”

Keith groaned, covering his face. “You’re so _embarrassing_.”

The laugh he heard now was softer, and much more genuine than the last. He felt Lance reach forward and wrap his hands around Keith’s wrists, dragging them out to the sides. Keith kept his eyes closed, because _fuck_ , Lance was embarrassing, and affectionate, and although Keith had his moments as well, Lance was so _explicit_ about it that it made his _entire body_ flush. 

“I _love_ you, Keith Kogane.” 

Keith whined, his wrists still in Lance’s gentle grip. “You’re so _gross,_ goddess.”

They were moments like these that reminded Lance of just how _beautiful_ this man really was, stands of hair falling out of those pins, still very much plump lips curled into an embarrassed wince. God above, Keith was _picturesque_ —and it wasn’t that simple catalog beauty that saw long lashes and feminine curves. After weeks of really _knowing_ Keith’s body, Lance recognized that his type of beauty was no where near that of a woman—he was not soft and round and he did not fit into Lance arms perfectly. Keith had angled shoulders, and pointed collarbones, and short thick lashes, and the tightest orbit for a waist.

Keith was a _man_ —but he was a damned _pretty_ man. 

The heat of lust at the bottom of Lance’s stomach faded for the pleasant warmth in his cheeks, watching Keith slowly open his eyes. Licking his lips, Lance brought that Saturn-stained wrist to his mouth, pressing a kiss onto it. He heard rather than saw Keith swallow. 

“I—I don’t think I ever told you the story behind that tattoo. Sorry.”

“Well,” Lance pressed Keith’s palm to his own cheek, “I don’t think I ever really asked, anyway.”

“You don’t want to know?” Keith asked curiously, looking back at Lance with blinking eyes. He let his fingers stroke a sharp, tan cheekbone.

Lance smiled reassuringly, “Do you want me to? You can do whatever makes you comfortable.”

Keith sighed, looking away. It wasn’t as though it was a secret or anything—just something he’d gotten a while back to remind himself of a few things; important things, he supposed, that kept him sane when he was on the brink of something else. In a way, he didn’t think he needed it anymore. His other hand had subconsciously come between them, fingers flitting downward to find the exposed rise of Lance’s ankle. 

He touched the haphazard, healed Jupiter. 

“I do.” Keith felt the hand on his back start drawing tender circles, the apartment calm and serene around them. “I do want you to know.” 

“Shoot, then, love.” 

Keith bit his lip, hand dropping to Lance’s shoulder. “Saturn is a planet in our solar system, right?”

“Last I checked, yeah, that was the case.” Lance gave him a playful smile. 

“Yes—Saturn—well, it’s the _second_ largest planet. Its moons are small and many, but none are _that_ important. It isn’t record-breakingly cold like Neptune, or vibrant in color like Mars. Even as a gas giant, it seems to fall pretty low when it comes to the ranking system.” Keith pauses, his shoulders sagging a little. Lance didn’t speak, he only listened, and Keith felt hands pull him in a little closer. “In a sense, Saturn really isn’t all that impressive. It’s the middle-child of the solar system, if you get what I mean.” He scoffed, turning away, “Even the deity it was named after—a bad guy, never worshipped, always feared—”

Keith seemed to trail off, a little lost in his own negativity, before hands squeezed his waist in concern. He forced a small laugh at the sight of Lance’s frown, but even then, Lance didn’t interrupt. “But you tell me, spaceman, what do people call Saturn? What’s Saturn’s _title_?”

“The Ringed Planet,” Lance cocked his head, a gentle smile starting to rise with his realization, “The Crown Jewel.”

“That’s right,” Keith agreed, “The Crown Jewel of our solar system. Saturn is in no way a scientific overachiever - sixth from the sun, not the warmest or the coldest. But you know what Saturn is, that none of these other planets are? Saturn is unique. Its beautiful regardless of the fact its mediocre at - not quite but almost - everything else. That’s why I got the tattoo, Lance,” Keith smiled, his hands coming up to frame Lance’s face, “Because I had to remind myself that being the best isn’t everything, even if you _are_ —because sometimes, it’s _okay_ to be second best, as long as you know _who_ you are—as long as you know _what_ you’re doing and why you’re doing it. No one can tell you who to be. You can be whatever the hell you want to be—happiness or destruction or both.” He stopped briefly. “At one point, I didn’t think I really knew any of that.”

Lance was quiet for a moment. “And now—do you?—do you know what you’re doing?”

Keith gave a genuine laugh, before closing the gap between them. 

“Not even fucking close.”  


* * *

  
[08:12AM]

 

In hindsight, they were both equally stupid—because there was really no logic in sitting in bed fucking around with phones and tattoos when they had both _obviously_ set alarms for a reason. It wasn’t until Lance’s second alarm had gone off, had they looked at each other - both a little disheveled, lips bruised magenta and blue - with that comically wide-eyed stare for four long seconds. Sure, they had burst out into panicked laughter, Lance rolling off the side of the bed, Keith crawling off the foot, but there was nothing funny about what would happen to them if they were late. What _Allura_ would do to Keith.

And then there was fucking _college for Lance_. He was a junior, who skipped classes every chance he got, but there was something especially _despicable_ about people who were late to the first class of the semester; Lance was a slacker, but he wasn’t a _savage_. With those thoughts in mind, he and Keith went about their ways, quick and panicked, around his small apartment, bypassing each other in a search for shoes and food and socks and deodorant. The situation was pretty blasphemous in all cases, destroying Lance’s holy morning routine— _“get your greasy hair out and away from the mirror, Keith, I need to wash off my face mask!_ ”, _“You literally put that thing on three minutes ago, let me brush my teeth first!”_ —giving him no time to properly ‘moisturize’. Keith usually bitched about it, but to no avail.

_Ah, no impressing pretty ladies with my flawless, silken skin this time around_ , he thought, running a quick hand through his hair. His eyes found Keith, who was bent over, looking for his messenger bag under the dresser. The sight made Lance smile. He didn’t really need to impress anyone who wasn’t Keith, anyway. 

“Stop looking at me like an asshole, and help me find this thing,” Keith complained, having felt Lance still behind him, “My keys are in there!”

Lance rolled his eyes, placing both hands on his hips, “Well, where’d you put it?”

“You gotta be kidding me—” Keith looked over his shoulder incredulously, “If I knew where I put it, _Lance_ , I wouldn’t be looking for it right now!” 

“Not my fault your ass is disorganized, I always tell you to sort your shit ou—”

“Not the time, _honey_!” Keith sung sarcastically, getting up from his crouched position. He walked out, past Lance, to look for it in the living room. “You sure you haven’t seen it?”

Lance picked up a shirt from the ground and brought it to his nose for inspection. “No!” he yelled back, “Did you check behind the door, though?”

“ _Fucki_ —” Keith growled before pausing, “ _Nailed it, spaceman!_ ”

Lance whistled, cheering briefly in time with Keith’s own _‘woot, woot!’,_ “Fuckin’, damn straight, I did!”

Hearing Keith’s triumphant laugh made his chest swell. He would have never imagined that this would be their life, domestic and cozy—the concept made Lance want to drag Keith back to bed and spend the rest of the day drinking shitty ice-tea and cuddling as they binge watch some crappy sitcom. He wouldn’t have minded, had it not been for class; he figured Keith would’ve liked it as well. He heard himself sigh, unconscious adoration written all over his face when he let the shirt drop to the ground. Lance liked to think that he was naturally in-tune with his feelings - but loving Keith felt like _nothing_ else. It didn’t matter whether or not he was _aware_ of those emotions, because it still felt like the floor fell out underneath him whenever Keith smiled. 

Lance swallowed down his grin, turning to the open closet in front of him, sleeves and scarves hanging off the shelves. With a decisive move, he pulled on the sleeve of a navy pullover, and grabbed the only jeans that didn’t look too gross to wear. After a brief pause of consideration - that Keith would probably hiss at him for, if he ever found out - Lance tugged out a clean pair of boxers. 

“Oi, Keith!” Lance yelled from the bedroom, finally having gotten his change of clothes, “You gonna shower first or should I?”

The apartment was silent for a moment, the dull beeping of the microwave was the only sound for a few long seconds—before the desperate peddling of feet. Lance gaped; oh fucking _hell_ no. He dropped the clothes he’d been cradling, his body barreling in the direction of the bathroom as fast as his feet could take him. _That little shit_ , he thought, almost nose-diving towards the bathroom door. _Of course_ Keith wouldn’t let him go first—Lance wasn’t sure why, or _how_ , he expected anything different. 

“Called it!” Keith hissed, slipping in through the _slightest_ crack before Lance could get a grip on the handle. He spoke to Lance from inside the bathroom, shutting the door deliberately, “ _I’ll be out in ten!_ ”

Lance slammed a palm against the door, “You dick!”

_“You do this to me all the time, what’re you complaining about!”_

Lance gave him an exaggerated gasp, listening to Keith laugh jovially, _“_ I’m going to launch you into the nearest supernova, mullet!”

_“Go do something productive, you loser.”_

“Go do something productive, he says,” Lance grumbled, walking away with his arms crossed. Sometimes - primarily when he lost - Lance really hated their playful rivalry. It was cute when it was about about kisses or something, but it just wasn’t fair how fast Keith was on his feet. 

Lance threw off the only article of clothing he had on, stepping out of the flannel pajama pants with ease, throwing his bare body onto the bed; he gave a theatrical groan when he heard the shower head switch on. He would deny pressing a smile into the pillow when he heard Keith’s faint laugh. 

He tugged the blanket over himself; Keith said ten minutes, but for some reason, that kid had no idea how long he actually took. Ten usually became twenty, _its probably the hair_ , and twenty, Lance figured, was enough time for a nap. 

Late is late, he argued.  


* * *

  
[08:37AM]

 

Keith was not exactly sustainable in the shower; he used too much shampoo, left the water on for longer than necessary, and - more often than not - spent most of his time staring at that one weird tile in the corner that Lance refused to fix. But that day, he figured, there was really no time to mess around with Lance’s myraid of hair products. He picked up one of the newer strange looking bottles, despite his train of thought, squinting at the description. _Lance, you barely_ have _hair, what the fuck is all this shit for?_ he thought shaking his head. Keith usually bought himself the scentless convenience store products, not liking how flowery this fancy stuff made him smell. _How can your broke ass even afford this stuff, McClain?_

Something told him that Lance prioritized his skin over his nutrition.

Scoffing, Keith set the bottle down—Lance was ridiculous, and the more Keith got to know about his quirks, the more endearing he became. It was a never-ending spiral of falling further and further for the asshole, and Keith found that he didn’t particularly mind. With the thought in mind, he stripped out of the large crew neck, letting the black boxer briefs pool around his ankles. Lance always hated when he left a pile of clothes by the sink, but Keith figured he’d forgive him this time around.

The shower was a fast one—at least by his own standards—and cold as an arctic polynya. His hair felt heavy against his shoulders, brushed back after he’d taken the pins out, water rolling down the indents of his back, muscle rolling underneath. The feeling was a pleasant one, presenting the perfect opportunity to think without Lance being around to see the shifts in Keith’s expression. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Lance around - he seemed to want nothing _more_ , recently - but the morning had taken a bit of a heavy turn. It was not necessarily an unpleasant one, so much as it was personal.

But Keith wanted to know _everything_ about Lance, and he wanted Lance to know everything about him. Accordingly, Saturn was a step forward.

At first, the tattoo felt too trivial to discuss. Keith didn’t want to irritate Lance with petty conversations—but telling him about it, and seeing Lance so infatuated _by_ it, made it all the more worthwhile. It showed him that Lance _cared_ about him—and about his silly baggage that no one else really payed much heed to. Keith would never admit it, but the moment Lance touched Saturn so tenderly was the same moment Keith fell in love with him all over again.

Swallowing, he thought about all the things he learnt about Lance over the past few months: Lance had a mahogany ukulele in his closet, and he drew the constellations along the insides of his textbooks. Keith thought about how Lance hummed in his sleep, and how he liked braiding Keith’s hair and sung Spanish lullabies to his siblings.

 _Goddess_ , Keith leant his head against the tile. He didn’t even _care_ if Allura would have his head for opening up the shop late—if it was up to him, Keith would’ve dragged Lance out to have breakfast somewhere with some half-assed excuse just to spend time with him. He had a feeling, had it not been for class, Lance would’ve been all for.

Picking the cheapest looking shampoo of the bunch, Keith quickly rinsed his hair and stepped out of the shower. He grabbed one of the clean towels hung behind the door, wrapping it around his waist easily. Before he could leave the bathroom though, his eyes caught onto something in the mirror—a faint fold of something other than clothes beneath the sweatshirt. It was white, almost lost against the ivory counter. Keith recognized it after only a single moment of hesitation.

It was a _flower_.

 _Gods, how preoccupied was I?_ He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about this—about Lance’s newfound ‘floral’ habit. It initially started when they’d gotten together, where, as a continuous form of apology, Lance left a flower around one of their apartments daily for Keith to find. It was cute at first, and a little funny watching Lance try his hand at subtlety, but sooner rather than later, Keith had asked him to stop. He liked having Lance’s attention, but even he knew what a budget buying all that needed. Lance seemed to accept compromise, and promised to do it every now and then. It was very endearing, overall.

It would’ve been more endearing, though, if Lance ever got any of the flower meanings _correct_.

With a sigh, Keith pushed his clothes aside. He couldn’t help the affectionate snort of laughter that escaped him at the sight of a single large, curved lily, pressed neatly under the fabric. It was a simple flower with a simple fragrance, and Keith usually liked lilies for just that reason alone. They symbolized virtue and innocence, and although he had no idea why Lance would want to give him those in particular, there was an even _bigger_ fuck up at hand. He loved and hated being the one to tell Lance.

“Lance McClain!” He yelled, a note of laughter to his tone. “The fuck is this?”

The apartment remained silent, and Keith wondered if the other had gone out for a smoke. He walked out of the bathroom, flower in hand, to the sight of Lance sleeping like the dead on his stomach, arms folded beneath a pillow. Keith bit his lip to hold down his smile; he really didn’t want to wake him, because there was something so innocent - and _quiet_ \- about the man while he slept. Then again, they both had places to be. Keith moved forward, gently pacing towards the bed before draping his damp body, towel and all, over Lance’s sleeping back. It was not enough to wake Lance but it definitely earned Keith some grumbles and a frown. 

Sitting up to straddle his sheet-hidden waist, Keith smiled down at the expanse of bare skin he was given. The skin on Lance’s back was so different than the clearness of his face, speckled in the prettiest beauty spots and faded freckles, faint lines of tiny scar tissue connecting them. Beautiful in every which way, with those childhood falls and stupid choices etched on to his back in a delicategalaxy. Keith placed the flower by Lance’s head, both palms finding home against the wingspan of his back instead. 

Goddess above _and_ below, Keith would’ve crossed the andes solely for the chance to trace the stars dotted across Lance’s back—to trace those unnamed constellations drawn into his skin by nature and stupidity. Keith could’ve argued that they were far prettier than any distant sun. At that thought, Keith found himself laughing out loud, thick and rich and real, at just how cheesy he’d become. 

_Fuck you, McClain,_ he leant back down over Lance’s body, picking up the disastrous flower again. He used the stem to poke away at Lance’s nose, watching the face contort steadily with every tap. Lance seemed to reach his boiling point when he mumbled a soft, ‘ _Keith, you dick_ ’, before turning his head in the opposite direction. Not taking it to heart, Keith scoffed, pressing a chaste kiss to the shell of Lance’s ear, “Fuck you too, _honey_.”

He heard a groan when he intentionally blew into Lance’s ear. “‘re hair—ugh— _wet_.”

“Are you ticklish?” he breathed into the same ear again. 

_That_ got those eyes to slant open, an unamused lid to them. “I _will_ kill you.”

Keith traded hands, bringing the flower to the other side to press the long stem against Lance’s cheek. “Well,” he hummed, too amused for the other’s liking, “you already have the flower for it.”

Lance’s sleepy glare contorted into confusion, “Wait, what?”

“This is a lily, Lance.”

“Yeah? Romantic right—innocence and purity and shit.”

Keith gave him a patronizing pat on the head, “These aren’t romantic, you moron.”

Lance twisted his body, placing both palms on Keith’s hips as he turned over onto his back. He pouted up at Keith, who now straddled him upright,“ _I_ thought they were cute, you ungrateful shit.”

“ _Lance_ ,” Keith couldn’t hold it in this time, he snorted a series of small breathy laughs, placing the large flower down the center of Lance’s sternum, “lilies are _funeral flowers_.”

There was a moment of silence before—

“—are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

* * *

  
[09:03AM]

 

Shiro liked mornings—and he liked being on the morning shift more often than not. It worked for him though, because Keith normally hung around in the evenings and Allura handled the afternoons. Sure, sometimes they mixed it up, or one of them had an entire day shift, but otherwise, the setup was pretty basic—and now that he’d graduated, Shiro was a little unsure of what he wanted to do with himself. It was an easy decision to make in the end, though: he wanted time off between work and university. 

After all, he wanted to spend time with Allura—with his _fiancee_. 

_God_ , the word was strange and wonderful all at once, and it made him nervous beyond belief; he was just glad he had Keith by his side throughout. Contrary to what Keith believed, he was just as much a backbone to Shiro as Shiro was to him. As reckless as he tended to be, Keith was calm and collected when he gave advice of any sort—especially recently. It made Shiro wonder just what type of influence Lance had on him to make him so at _ease_. 

Keith had always been strung a little too tight, temperamental by nature and impatient by choice, but something changed in him; those stormy grey kaleidoscopic eyes faded into an intelligent, pale violet. And when Shiro had confided in him a couple days before—about his fears, and Allura, and not being good enough—Keith had done nothing but listen silently until he was done. The lack of defensive, protective outbursts was totally uncharacteristic. Instead, Keith had placed a steady hand on his shoulder, _‘she wouldn’t be with you if she didn’t care, calm down.’_

And the weirdest thing was it _worked_. 

Shiro smiled, stepping into the flower shop. _Yeah_ , Keith was a backbone unlike any other, and he had a feeling Lance was to thank for that. The first time he’d actually seen Keith smile genuinely in front of other people was when they were with Lance. Even with everyone teasing them about ‘PDA-ing’ - as Pidge dubbed it - Shiro was relieved to see the affectionate touches they left on each other. Everything from Lance kissing Keith’s temple, to running his palm across Keith’s back reassuringly, made Shiro sigh in relief. 

His little grump was in good hands. 

Shiro took a deep, sated breath. The flower shop was calm, a little less vibrant than it had been over the summer, with the spring blooms either sold or wilted with the weather. The sun was faint outside, high and cold, reflecting the break of autumn along the greens that remained; it was a lovely season, he thought, giving Keith’s little red succulent a wave as he walked passed. It was hard to think that this little shop had seen so much in just one year - all sorts of drama and heartbreak and redemption. Shiro set down his bag on the counter, before leaning against it, his eyes tracing the shelves with open fondness. 

The door chimed. 

It was quiet, and the lean fingers that appeared on the side looked hesitant. Shiro smiled when Pidge walked in, looking out of place, if not a little lost. They gave him a small smile, “Hey.”

“Morning. Don’t you have class today?” Shiro leant further against the counter, elbows crossed over one another. 

“Not until the afternoon.” Pidge nodded offhandedly, before gravitating towards a small green agave. Their eyes rolled back to Shiro knowingly, smirk in place. “I figured you might need some help. God knows you’re completely helpless without Allura here.”

“Well, I suggest you roll your sleeves up, buddy,” he threw them a hearty laugh, “and prepare to get your hands dirty.”

“Oh yes, dealing with flowers is _such_ a filthy occupation. Should I have brought my gun, too? How bad is it—do we need damage control? A trip to the Red Light District?” Pidge scoffed, smiling. “Just show me your dirtiest daisy, old man, and I’ll teach you how to plant.”

Shiro grinned. 

“Big talk.”  


* * *

  
[09:28AM]

 

It had been an entire year since Lance met Keith, Hunk realized, wiping down the counter. It had been this time last autumn that Lance had done the impossible to court Nyma, and for some reason, it flooded him with relief to consider that done and over with. He was happy for Lance— _and_ Keith. Hunk found himself smiling; it was like watching two angry kittens play fight, only to fall asleep curled around one another. Least to say, it made him rest easy knowing that Lance had finally found a person that could love him and put him in his place simultaneously. 

“Alright, but what do you think of _this_ one, then!” 

Hunk turned around to face Allura who was seated on Pidge’s regular stool, thrusting the screen of a laptop into his face, her own flushed with determination. Allura, Hunk decided early on, was on of his favorites when it came to Keith’s friends. Shiro was great as well, but there was something about how flippant and confident and _headstrong_ Allura was that made their friendship bloom quickly. Even Lance - despite his intentional flirting to get under Keith’s skin - found Allura a pretty neat addition to their little group. Hunk bent down to look at the offered screen. 

The two-piece dress was beautiful, the queen-anne neckline braced onto a fully lace top, details woven into the floral knots with an obviously practiced hand. The high waisted skirt fell plain past a strip of stomach, straight white silk running all the way down into soft folds around the model’s feet, a slit cut along the side. Hunk, looking back at Allura, in her haphazard bun and peach wool sweater, thought she would look lovely in it. 

“I think it looks great—definitely not as tacky as the other one,” he shrugged, smiling, “then again, maybe you want to wait for Lance’s opinion? Or Shay’s?”

Shay _did_ have better taste than him generally when it came to such things - it was also convenient that his girlfriend and Allura happened to be friends beforehand. It eased the awkwardness that Lance initially brought to the table when he tried introducing Keith and Shiro to the rest of them.

“Oh, nonsense!” Allura shook her head, placing the laptop down in front of her again, “You’re doing just fine.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He laughed, “Hey, Coran!”

Coran, who had taken to organizing the mugs on the the other end of the kitchenette turned to him, eyebrow raised, “In my day, it used to be boss, or sir, or—”

“Yeah, yeah—come take a look at this dress, grandpa,” Hunk ignored him, a teasing smile on his lips. He crossed his arms, watching the older man frown childishly, “It’s a pretty one.”

“Well, I assume _anything_ Allura picks will have the essence of elegance, after all she—”

“Just come look, Coran,” Hunk insisted, watching Allura smile appreciatively back at him, a silent _‘thank you’, ‘you’re welcome’_ exchange running between them. Both of them understood how protective and loving Coran got, and even if his blessing was there, it didn’t stop him from being a little dismissive. With a relenting sigh, Coran turned to them with a sad smile. 

“Alright. I suppose one quick peek wouldn’t hurt—”

The door burst open, to the sound of argument and a pitched, almost routine, _‘damn it, Lance!’._ All three of them turned to the sight of a disheveled Lance, his pullover a little wrinkled and un-ironed, fingers wrapped around Keith’s wrist, who still had his helmet on. “Move your mullet, Keith! I need coffee and I’m like twenty million years late to class because _someone_ took eighty-two years in the shower!”

“Aside from the obvious, you moron, I don’t think that’s mathematically sound!”

Lance was caught mid-retort when he saw Hunk staring at him questioningly, “Oh _perfect_ —Hunkanator! Hunkatron! Hunk-a-funk! Set me up with something good will you? Please make it quick?”

“ _Hunk-a-funk?_ ” came the muffled scoff, “Lance, your shitty nicknames are literally the reason all your friends will leave you one day.”

“Shut up, babe, no one asked you,” he rolled his eyes at Keith, who was in the process of taking off his vespa helmet. Once his head was free, Keith shook it, muttering a muted ‘ _unbelievable_ ’. Lance grinned back at his sulking boyfriend before giving him a audible pat on the butt, “love you lots and lots, hot stuff.”

Hunk couldn’t help but laugh at how Keith had only faintly blushed, looking back at Lance with a face that screamed rat poison for dinner. He seemed to cave eventually, though, face falling from glare to gentle frown, “You’re terrible.”

“And you're late.” Allura interrupted with a smile, leaning her face leisurely on one palm, “ _Terribly_ so.”

Keith’s eyes widened gradually as he turned to her, jaw stuttering open and closed, before a gentle ‘ _fuck_ ’ escaped him. “I am so, _so_ sorry, Allura—Lance completely—”

“ _Lance_? _Lance_ he says! Don’t you dare pin this on me!”

“—completely distracted me and I was in the process of getting ready, too—”

Lance squawked, arms raised as he looked to Hunk for back up, “I don’t believe this, _oh my god_.” 

“—my alarm was set and everything—”

“— _you absolute, little shit_ —”

Coran cleared his throat, silencing both boys with a seasoned smile; he set down a steaming cup of coffee in front of Lance, “You both have places to be, I assume?”

They both looked back at the man then down at the two twin drinks set in front of them, the iced-tea’s swirling caramel and the thick dark brew of Lance’s coffee sitting side by side, ‘ _lace_ ’ and ‘ _kieth_ ’ lining the sides in black ink. It was endearing in a seriously irritating sort of way—mostly because Lance was one-hundred and twelve percent sure Coran misspelled their names on purpose. 

It was Keith who spoke first, “Uh, I haven’t ordered yet—”

“Well, you both come here on a daily basis, with the same exact orders—which are usually on the house as well, if my recollection is sound,” Coran spoke, his smile playful but haughty. He glanced at Hunk, who looked off to the side, scratching the back of his neck with a nervous chuckle. “None of you are very hard to predict, I’m afraid.”

“But how’d you know me and Keith were going to be late?” Lance insisted.

“It’s called a sixth sense, my boy, something you may be unfamiliar with at your measly age—“

“He didn’t,” Hunk interrupted, “he wanted to make you wait for them, so he prepared them a little later than usual. You’re just lucky you walked in late, otherwise you would’ve sat around for like fifteen minutes—sorry, Coran,” he added the last part as an after thought.

“ _Unbelievable_!” Coran harrumphed, crossing his arms to the sound of Allura’s laugh. “That’s nonsense if I ever heard—”

“ _Okay_ ,” Keith drew the word out, reaching for the drink, “thank you anyways, Coran.” He took a sip before turning to Lance, pressing cold lips to the underside of his jaw in an almost subconscious gesture, almost second nature. “I’m going to bounce, Shiro probably needs me at the store, and I’m late as is.”

“Fair, I guess,” Lance nodded idly, completely unaffected by the kiss. He grabbed Keith’s wrist with a solemn expression before he could leave, “But take care, yeah?”

Keith smiled, “I work at a _flower shop_ , Lance—I don’t think that constitutes as an extreme sport.”

“Right, how could I forget, flower-boy,” he chuckled, momentarily forgetting about the audience listening in on their little exchange. He tugged Keith closer, giving him a quick peck on the lips, “Don’t cut yourself on a thorn or something.”

“As long as you don’t cut yourself on tenth grade algebra,” Keith scoffed through his grin, “I think I’ll be okay.”

It was comical to everyone in the room - save Lance - how his expression morphed from playful to horrified in a series of slow seconds. “ _Fuck_ , math? Math!—I have _class_! Class that started like - an hour ago!” Grabbing his coffee, Lance gave Keith’s butt another, louder, pat, before turning tail and bounding out of the coffeehouse in a flurry of long limbs. There was a faint, but very much yelled, _‘Thanks, Coran! And bye, babe!’_

Keith laughed past his own embarrassment, the tinge to his cheeks not going unnoticed by Allura and Hunk. He looked out through the watermarked window, a pleasant, distant smile on his face. “I should go too.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see you later, man,” Hunk spoke, but his expression was tied to Allura’s—their eyes meeting in a knowing exchange. He couldn’t help but think of the first time Lance described Keith as nothing special, no metaphors and no fancy diction. Sure, he’d been hung up on another at the time, but looking at Keith now, Hunk couldn’t help but think it was Lance’s most accurate description. 

_‘You know, Hunk, there’s something a little different about that florist with the white tennis shoes.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaand, scene! 
> 
> i'm going to try to make this as short as i possibly can - so here goes: thank you to every single person who's read, reviewed, subscribed, critiqued, liked _and_ hated this story :) i just can't tell you how awesome it feels to know people have read this all the way through! it's... well, i feel accomplished to put it simply hahah
> 
>  
> 
> **special thanks to all the people who drew[ art](http://venpast.tumblr.com/tagged/ofts+art) for this dumb story. seriously, they're all absolutely amazing and i need you guys to give them alllll the love**
> 
> also, i had a TON of trouble writing fluff for this epilogue ahah, so i started a mini-series on tumblr as domestic fluff practice. basically, klance shorts that are around 300 words each - if you're into that stuff, you'll find them on my [ tumblr](http://venpast.tumblr.com) right [ here!](http://venpast.tumblr.com/tagged/cliche+klance)
> 
> i really hope you enjoyed, and until next time, guys! :)


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